


The Singing Hedgehog

by Swift_tales



Series: Days of Legend [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe Post Season 3, F/M, Implied Non-Con: Mind rape, M/M, Slow Build Merlin/Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:23:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swift_tales/pseuds/Swift_tales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story begins after the ending of season 3 and becomes AU after that. The king is still recovering from Morgana's betrayal, the new knights of Camelot are settling in, Arthur is taking up the duties as regent and dark forces gather on the horizon.</p><p>Starts out with Arthur/Gwen, but as the series progresses will eventually become Arthur/Merlin. The tags refer to an instant of what could be described as 'mind-rape' but is not graphic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_The Singing Hedgehog_ is full to bursting; stuffed to the rafters with squires, servants, knights, tradesmen, farmers, seamstresses, cooks, laundresses and many others living and working in Camelot. The tavern has become particularly successful ever since one of its barmaids developed the habit of standing on one of the tables and singing after sundown. The girl has a good, clear voice and she is pretty to boot. When she finishes, the gathered crowd bursts out into a roaring applause. It brings a broad smile to her face and she blushes as she curtsies before climbing down again. 

She accepts a jug from one of the other waitresses and quickly goes back to her rounds, filling cups and accepting orders for more ale. In about half an hour she’ll go back to her table to sing loud and clear and tempt men passing outside to step into the warmth of the alehouse. For now, she smiles and laughs and goes around with her jug, drawing admiring stares and a young man or two bold enough to approach her. 

Leon watches as Gwaine stands up, nearly trips over the bench and quickly goes after her. Elyan shouts something – something rude and lewd that only makes Gwaine laugh – at his back. Percival stares after him with interest for a second or two before looking back to his tankard. 

Lancelot idly traces shapes into the spilled ale on the table. “She’s a lovely voice.” His voice is soft and his words are mumbled low enough that Elyan can’t even hear him. He’s a few swallows away from slurring and giggling into his tankard. With the way Lancelot holds his liquor, Leon is grateful Lancelot isn’t a weepy drunk or prone to melancholy while drinking. Leon takes a minute to consider that and be grateful that none of them are prone to melancholy while drinking. It would make this whole knight-business a whole lot less appealing. 

Two hands holding two tankards each appear in front of him, setting their load on the table. “Your friend is wasting his time” – A soft smile behind a few strands of almost-white, blonde hair – “Abigail is carrying on with Thomas.” One of those hands points at the direction of the bar. 

Leon smiles and leans back in his seat. It stops his shoulders from hunching and makes him look broader and taller, so he’s been told. “I don’t think Gwaine will be bothered.” Gwaine likes to flirt, Leon has noticed, but never more than that. “And if he is, we’ll take care of it. He won’t cause any trouble, if you’re worried.”

The girl smiles back. “It’s nice to know the knights of Camelot are looking out for us.” She straightens from where she’d been bending over the table and Leon thinks she’s rather tall, maybe as tall as he is. Her blond hair is pulled back from her face even if a few strands seem to be escaping whatever hold she’s keeping it in. She’s dressed in a blue frock and a white apron covered in stains: yellow and light brown of spilled ale and red of wine. Her eyes are dark, blue and gleaming in the shadows. 

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Leon says, feels slightly daring. “I would have remembered. I’m Leon.” He holds out his hand for her to shake. 

The flush on her cheeks deepens. “Gloria,” she says and shakes his hand, but he’s not daring enough to kiss it. Instead, he holds on a little while longer than appropriate. “I only arrived in Camelot two weeks ago.” 

He watches the blush fill up her face and smiles. “How are you finding it?” 

She grins; a flash of white teeth cutting through the shadows. “I love it here. The people, the buildings, it’s beautiful.” Someone bumps into her from behind and it’s like a spell breaking; the noise and smells of the tavern rushing in again. She smiles and bends her lanky frame over the table again to gather the empty tankards. “I should get back to work.” She leaves, pushing through the throng. He watches her go but loses sight of her quickly.

Elyan doesn’t seem to have noticed – his face is buried in his tankard – but across the table, Lancelot and Percival are sharing a meaningful look. Leon resists the urge to roll his eyes. Those two are like two meddling old women, having spent so much time on the road together that they seem attached at the hip. “She’s pretty,” Lancelot offers. He sounds like he’s hiding a giggle behind his teeth. Percival gives a silent, solemn nod of agreement. Leon doesn’t make the rude gesture he wants to. As the oldest knight amongst them he should set the example, which means not getting too drunk and behaving in public.

Elyan looks up, seems to have missed the entire exchange, and says: “Well, he’s getting the cold shoulder.” 

They all look in the same direction and get a glimpse of Gwaine flirting with Abigail while her arms are crossed in front of her chest and the bloke behind the bar keeps giving them worried glances. 

“I doubt he’s bothered,” Leon says, taking another drink himself. 

Percival nods. “He doesn’t really mean anything by it. He just likes to talk” – he pauses, his tankard raised halfway to his mouth, seeming to ponder to issue – “and flip his hair.”

Gwaine returns and flops down on the seat to Leon’s right again. “Abigail’s carrying on with that lad behind the bar, did any of you know?”

Elyan shrugs. “Figured she’d be carrying on with someone. She’s too lovely to be on her own.”

“One of the other girls, the new one,” Lancelot wiggles his eyebrows, “she just told us.” 

Gwaine grins. “Ah, Gloria, pretty girl that.” 

“Friendly too,” Percival says. Lancelot starts laughing and Leon doesn’t need to look at Gwaine to know his eyebrows are trekking up his forehead.

“Friendly? And who’s she friendly with?” Gwaine asks, resting his elbows on the table; the very picture of an eager gossip. 

Leon shrugs. “We were just talking.” 

A hand claps him on the shoulder. “Just talking to who?” Arthur sits down in the seat next to Lancelot, who is sitting next to Elyan. Merlin, never far behind, plops down in the seat next to Percival, across from Arthur and with his side to Gwaine’s front. 

Leon’s glad to see him. Arthur has been quiet for months now, ever since Morgana’s short but brutal reign and the king’s subsequent collapse. Uther hasn’t been seen in public or in the citadel since then, being sequestered in his chambers for all this time. It is not Leon’s place to ask or to question or to know, but there are rumours that the king has lost his mind. All Leon knows is that Arthur is king in everything but name and is running himself ragged between his duties as regent and his duties as crown prince. Coming to the tavern is probably an attempt to show the people that everything is alright, but perhaps Arthur will take this opportunity to relax slightly. 

Lancelot snickers into his tankard again and Leon knows that he’s well into his cups. Some men get loud when drunk while Lancelot gets quiet, snickering and laughing. Percival sees his opportunity to steal Lancelot’s tankard and the young knight simply laughs when he lifts an empty hand to his mouth. Elyan throws his head back to laugh and thumps his head against the wall in the process. Arthur laughs too and Merlin smiles quietly at the sound. 

“Leon here,” Gwaine slaps him on the back, “was talking to a lovely serving girl, Gloria.” 

Merlin grins broadly. Lancelot’s head drops down on the table but his shoulders are shaking with senseless laughter. Percival ignores the conversation and instead keeps an eye on Lancelot to make sure that he doesn’t fall to the ground or starts vomiting. Elyan leans forward, into the conversation. Arthur turns his head to look at Leon with the sly, teasing grin that has been missing from his face for weeks. “That does not sound like you.” 

Leon shrugs. “We were just talking.” 

“The same way Gwen and Arthur just talk in the armoury?” Merlin asks and then promptly winces as if Arthur just kicked him in the shins. 

“That’s my sister!” Elyan says, scandalized. 

Gwaine laughs and wiggles his eyebrows. “The armoury?” 

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says forcefully, “doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” 

“Don’t I?” Merlin asks and Leon can’t tell whether he’s seriously asking or not. 

“Why the armoury?” Gwaine asks. 

Arthur glares at him. “We don’t do _anything_ in the armoury.” 

“Well, you better not!” Elyan says, frowning. 

“Personally, I’d go for one of the gardens on the upper level, some flowers, some wine, much more romantic.” Gwaine says. 

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Yes, having to get a girl drunk before she’s willing to kiss you is very romantic.” 

Gwaine opens his mouth to say something when Gloria appears at their table to gather their empty tankards. The sudden silence must make her suspicious because she hesitates, the tankards held close to her chest. “Can I get you something?” She hesitates again, curtsies, “your Majesty?” 

Arthur smiles and puts his hand on the nape of Leon’s neck to shake him slightly. “You can get my friend Leon and I, and the rest of these thankless beggars” – there’s a thump and Arthur briefly glares at Merlin as if his servant kicked him underneath the table – “a tankard of ale each.” He eyes Lancelot, whose face is smashed against the table. He looks on the verge of passing out into oblivion. “Except that one.” 

She smiles, her eyes flicker over to Leon, rest on him for a second. “I will.” She vanishes into the crowd again. 

“Well, she seems lovely.” Merlin says; kind and a bit naive, maybe. Gwaine wraps an arm around those bony shoulders. 

“Yes, _lovely_.” There is a dirty leer on his face. Leon isn’t bothered. Gwaine’s bark is always worse than his bite. 

“You’ve a dirty mind,” Leon says anyway. Gwaine slips from his own seat to the too small spot next to Merlin. Merlin shifts over, forcing Percival to shift too. He’s grinning, cuddling closer to Merlin. Leon knows that it’s only going to get worse from now on; Gwaine’s an affectionate drunk, holding his friends and snuggling into their shoulders, especially if those friends are called ‘Merlin.’ 

“Careful there, Merlin, next you know, he’ll be trying to climb into your lap,” Arthur says, nodding towards Gwaine. 

Merlin just laughs while Gwaine makes a rude gesture with his hand but is interrupted by four tankards appearing on the table. “I’ll get the other two right away,” Gloria assures them and leaves again. 

“ _Very_ lovely,” Gwaine says, craning his neck backwards to watch her leave. 

Arthur and Leon share a look and Arthur, very deliberately, rolls his eyes. They share a brief puff of laughter together and watch as Gwaine rests his head on Merlin’s shoulder and tries to drink from his tankard at the same time, spilling ale on himself and a bit on Merlin. Merlin just laughs and picks up his tankard to drink, but not much. Merlin has been careful not to get too drunk with the knights again since that time with Gwaine and the horse and the seamstress down in Aethed Lane in the Lower Town. 

Percival watches them with quiet amusement and Elyan’s attention has wandered to a girl on the other side of the room. He tries to gesture _something_ with his left hand and bumps into his tankard. He just barely manages to stop it from tumbling over and spilling ale all over the table. The girl on the other side laughs and so do all of them with Gwaine hiding his laugh in Merlin’s shoulder. Lancelot, however, seems to have passed out for good.

Gloria appears again, stepping in the space between Leon’s bench and the other bench with Gwaine and Merlin. She lowers two tankards onto the table. Her eyes catch his and the world falls away again, blurred and out of focus and no noise, the quiet zooming in on the hair curling loose from her clasp, the gleam in her eyes. Her arm brushes against his. She blinks and steps back, pops the bubble they’d been in. Leon blinks and shakes himself. 

She smiles, a flush high on her face, wipes her hands on her apron. “Is there anything else?” The question is directed at Leon.

He shakes his head. “No, thank you.” 

She looks slightly disappointed, but nods, smiles and leaves. 

“Well, you seem to have caught her eye, at the very least,” Arthur says quietly, watching Merlin and Gwaine lean against each other. Percival is drinking steadily while one hand ruffles Lancelot’s hair. Elyan is still eying the girl across the room and Leon takes a split second to wonder why he hasn’t gone over there yet. Elyan knows how to charm women; knows what to say to catch their interest. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to strike up conversation with a girl.

Leon shrugs. “She’s new. Gwaine hasn’t had the chance to charm her yet.” 

Arthur snorts into his own tankard. “Charm? Harry, you mean?” 

“Oi!” Gwaine uses his tankard to point at Arthur. “The ladies love me.” 

“They only love your hair.” Arthur says, taking another deep drink of his ale. 

Gwain droops at the words, moping into his drink. Merlin wraps an arm around Gwaine’s waist and glares at Arthur. “Don’t worry, we love you.” 

“Really?” He looks up, ridiculously hopeful, like a kicked puppy begging to be petted. 

“We do!” Merlin affirms and then glares at all of them when they’re silent. He turns back to Gwaine and gives him a clumsy hug. “You’re my best friend, Gwaine!” 

Gwaine sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, dramatically throwing his head back. “You’re my best friend too, mate.” 

They all laugh and Lancelot would have tumbled off the bench if Elyan hadn’t grabbed him on time to stop him from falling. “You alright?” 

Lancelot nods, but looks a bit bleary. “I think I’ve had too much.” 

Percival nods. “You shouldn’t drink so much when you know you can’t hold your liquor.” 

“I can hold my liquor!” Lancelot argues, but it’s hard to believe him when he’s slurring his words. 

Arthur claps Lancelot on the shoulder. “You’re even worse than Merlin and I’ve seen Merlin get drunk on three cups of watered down wine.” 

“I wasn’t drunk!” Merlin shouts. “I was _pretending_ to be drunk because of the-” He abruptly cuts himself off. 

“Because of what, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur asks. 

Merlin just scowls and buries his face in Gwaine’s hair. 

Percival looks thoughtful. “Why would anyone pretend to be drunk?” 

“To tumble a girl?” Elyan offers. 

Lancelot scoffs. “Girls don’t like it when you’re drunk.” 

“What if they’re drunk too?” Elyan asks. 

“Then you shouldn’t tumble them.” Percival shrugs.

Lancelot nods. “That’s right.” He looks at the table thoughtfully and then rests his head on it, face turned in Arthur’s direction. “I think I’ll take a nap now.” He giggles, “Nap.” 

Arthur laughs. “Alright, I think it’s time we got all of you back to the castle.” Percival nods and stands. He helps Lancelot stand up and takes one of Lancelot’s arms to wrap it around his own shoulders to keep the other knight from falling over. Arthur helps Merlin, who is a little unsteady on his feet, with Gwaine. 

“I think I’ll be staying a bit longer, lads,” Elyan says and promptly leaves, making his way through the crowd to reach the girl standing near the singing-table. 

“Don’t forget there’s training tomorrow!” Arthur yells after him, but Elyan just waves a hand and keeps going. Arthur and Leon share a look, already knowing that Elyan won’t show up tomorrow. 

“I’ll pay, you go on ahead.” Leon says and Arthur nods at him from over his shoulder. In the far corner of the tavern, Abigail climbs back on top of a table and starts singing, her strong voice rising above the noise of the crowd. Leon makes his way over to the bar and pays for their drinks. It’s too busy to stay and chat with Thomas for a minute, so he heads out again. Near the stairs to the upper landing, close to the door, he bumps into Gloria. 

Standing in front of him, he can accurately say that she is only a little shorter than he is. Her hair is still gathered together but strands are rebelling against the hold. She tilts her head back slightly and their eyes meet easily. She smiles at him and Leon struggles to remember the last time a pretty girl smiled at him. She reaches up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ears and his eyes follow the movement involuntarily. “Are you leaving already?” 

He nods. “Afraid so, the knights have training early in the morning.” 

She smiles and steps closer. Her shoulders are hunched slightly; her body curling forward in his direction. He thinks she’s being coy but he can’t be sure. “Working hard to keep us all safe?” 

He smiles back. “Of course, it’s our duty.” 

She nods, cocks her head sideways and curls her hand into the fabric of his tunic. “Duty? So it brings you no pleasure?” Her mouth curls around the word ‘pleasure’ and he feels slightly light-headed. 

“I didn’t say that.” He doesn’t know what else to say; flirting does not come easily to him. But she smiles and pulls him closer. She’s pressed up against him now; her eyes peeking at him from behind her lashes. Her hand is still curled in his tunic. He settles his own hands on her hips. Her smile broadens, but she ducks her head slightly, as if shy. 

“Do you practice every day?” She asks him. 

He shakes his head. “We have one day off every week.” He leans forward slightly and their foreheads almost touch. 

“But not tomorrow.” Her shy smile releases a puff of air and he chuckles softly with her, shakes his head. They’re close enough to kiss. 

“I’m afraid not.”

“Would you like to come up anyway?” He casts his eyes across the busy tavern and she hastens to reassure him; “this is Abigail’s last couple of songs and the tavern will close not long after. They don’t really need me now.” 

He hesitates. It is not honourable for a knight to lie with a girl when he cannot promise her his hand in marriage. It happens, of course it does and Leon knows of older knights who continue to do so even after they are wed to women of appropriate status. He has been with a girl or two himself, but not often. Charming girls does not come easy to him and he usually does not even wish to. It is not honourable, he reminds himself, not befitting a knight, but he nods anyway. She takes his hand and guides him up the stairs. The noise of the tavern disappears behind him. The sound of Abigail’s singing stays with them a moment longer but is quiet when the wooden door to one of the upstairs rooms closes behind them. 

Her bottom lip is soft beneath his and her shoulders tremble underneath his hands. She pushes closer, wraps her arms around his waist. The warm weight of her breasts press against him and he _wants_ , allows himself to for the first time in a long while. She’s tall and lanky and not as soft as some women, but she feels lean and strong under his hands. He leaves her mouth to press a kiss underneath the hinge of her jawbone and scratch his teeth over the jut of her collarbone. She moans softly and pulls him to the bed. 

She pushes him down and straddles his lap, her skirts bunched around her hips. He holds her close and they kiss wildly, deep and wet, open-mouthed and desperate. She grinds down in his lap as his right hand holds on to her hip and his left slides up the soft skin of her calf. She pulls away, panting, leans her forehead against his. She whispers something, low and guttural in his ear. When he meets her eyes, the flare of gold is all he can see as he sinks away into the depths of his own mind.

When she speaks, her voice is deep and sonorous, resonating in his chest, in his head, in the space around them. _After Prince Arthur left, you stayed and had a drink more with Thomas. You did not speak with me beyond our exchanges at your table. You left, back to your bedchamber. You will go about your duties and tomorrow night, you will remember and carry out my command. After that, you will forget again._

His own voice is a whisper, thin like smoke. He can hardly hear it over the sound of his pounding heart, the gold blinding him, the sound of her voice. “What do you command?” 

She kisses him on the forehead and murmurs words into the skin there. _Repeat after me._ She says, her hands frame his face, force him to look at her, gold like a rope holding him close to her. _I will kill Uther Pendragon._

“I will kill Uther Pendragon.” 

To Be Continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: cannon is somewhat unclear about the whole chainmail and plate thing. I’ve seen full plate in the series, but usually you see Arthur walking around in a slimmed down version of it (that doesn’t seem to have been standard in any time period) and Leon just wears no plate at all. At the very least, I remember only having seen him in chainmail and a surcoat. Historically, Arthurian myth mostly takes place in the 6th century when there was no plate, so Leon is the only one historically correct Norman knight.
> 
> Therefore: in this verse (which is my AU which makes me GOD!) the knights go into battle in full plate, they wear only chainmail inside the city and on patrol they wear what Arthur does, the thing in between, which I don’t know the name for.
> 
> In training they learn how to fight in all three; chainmail, minimal and full plate. So they practice every day a week, except for one (Sunday) and they just alternate: one week full armour, one week minimal, one week medium and every once in a while Arthur surprises them and forces them to tie their right hand behind their backs. 
> 
> So: to briefly recap and make a list of all the things they’ll be wearing when. 
> 
> On duty within the city proper (whether it’s the Lower Town, Upper Town, Citadel, Castle): mail hauberk + surcoat + cape + optional 6th century Norman helmets, by which I mean a steel hood + noseguard, which is standard armour. 
> 
> Patrol armour: Mail hauberk + surcoat + cape over the torso. From shoulder to wrist: gardbrace, pauldron, upper cannon, cowter or elbow cup, lower cannon or vambrace on the dominant sword arm. On the left arm: lower cannon or vambrace. Also: gorget to protect the neck.  
> Vambrace is sometimes also used to refer to the combination = upper cannon + cowter + lower cannon. But I probably won’t. 
> 
> Full plate:   
> Shoulder to wrist: gardbrace, pauldron, upper canon, couter or elbow cup, lower cannon or vambrace on both arms + gauntlets.   
> On the torso: chainmail covered by breast plate + back plate + fauld + tasset.   
> Legs: cuisse + poleyn + greave.  
> Cape and helmet is optional and most people take that option. There won’t be a standard helmet as I believe in canon a lot of different ones are used during duels. I think I’ve seen Arthur wear an armet, but I’ve also seen a great helm and I think a barbute on the show. So in full plate you can pick!
> 
> I think it’s customary to wear a doublet or an armed doublet or a gambeson under the chainmail because otherwise it can cause horribly painful sores and it can chafe and things like that. So, yes, that too. 
> 
> Ally my knowledge comes from the interwebs, so I apologize if anything is incorrect. I’m just trying to paste it all together somewhat coherently.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun is high in the sky when Leon returns from morning patrol through the Darkling Woods. It is almost noon and he is late for luncheon in the dining room of the barracks. As it is, he has to rush to be on time on the practice field. He stops by the room appointed to him as Captain of the Guard to change into his doublet. It’s a good day for training; the sky is clear and the sun is out but it’s not too hot to fry them like eggs inside their chainmail and plate. They’re practising in full plate this week and he hurries down to the armoury. He’s lucky he has a devoted squire. The young lad is already there to help him with his chainmail and armour. To carry full plate is always a heavy affair, but years and years of practising have made it easy to carry. Full plate is not often worn on foot; but Arthur demands that they practise swordsmanship in it in case they get unhorsed in battle and need to defend themselves on foot. 

Gwaine is already on the field; applying a whetstone to his sword while chatting with Merlin. Arthur’s servant is sitting near the sidelines as always and seems to be sharpening Arthur’s sword. Leon carefully looks over the field and finds Lancelot and Percival talking near the practice targets, Percival towering over Lancelot like a tree over a sprout. Attached at the hip, Leon thinks. He’s heard their story, of course, and the rumours surrounding it: two men wanting to be knights meeting on the road, bonding through hardships. He can see how it is hard for Percival to converse with other people. A boy raised in the forests of Northwaelum by his mother, unaware of the ways of men, must find it hard to adjust to a world of knights. 

Leon casts his eyes sideways, looking for Arthur, and finds him speaking with some of the other knights near the far end of the field. Not all the knights of Camelot are part of Arthur’s inner circle. The Knights of the Round Table, as Merlin sometimes calls them, are the ones he takes in closest confidence. They are the ones who saw him at his most downtrodden and followed him into battle anyway. He chose them, made them his knights for their merits instead of their heritage or their patronage. All of them besides Leon were knight-errants once upon a time; spent years on the hard road. Even whilst sparring they fight with death behind every blow and Leon knows that only their tight control stops them from killing on the practice field. 

Despite the appearance of favouritism, it has not bred resentment among the others. Arthur is a good commander. He gives praise sparingly and the knights know it is always genuine and justified. He hounds their weaknesses but displays genuine pride when – inevitably under his tutelage – they overcome it. He listens to their concerns and appreciates their input. He is hard on all of them yet hardest on himself. Wherever he goes Arthur inspires loyalty and determination to do and be better; not for themselves, but for Camelot and for Arthur. 

Except in one person, Leon thinks when he accounts for all the knights but one. When Arthur leaves the other knights to find Merlin, Leon quickly falls in step with him. “He’s not here,” Leon says. 

Arthur nods and says: “I’ve noticed.” 

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Leon asks. 

Arthur shakes his head. “No, I’ll speak with him myself this time.” 

Leon hesitates, but asks anyway: “Guinevere won’t mind?” 

Arthur snorts. “Gwen is the last person who wants me to cut Elyan any slack.” 

Leon grins because that does sound like Gwen, who is possibly the sweetest girl in Camelot but seems to be suspicious of all her brother’s actions. Arthur grins and his eyes crinkle at the corner even if the tense line of his shoulders doesn’t soften. Leon wants to ask how the meeting with two lords of the council went this morning, but doesn’t. The way Arthur carries himself is answer enough. 

“Leon!” Gwaine yells at him even though he and Arthur are close enough now for Merlin to hand over Arthur’s sword. “How did it go with that girl last night?”

Leon stops and something behind his eyeballs stiffens. “What?” 

Gwaine wiggles his eyebrows. “You know, Gloria, the new servant girl?” He makes an obscene hand gesture and Merlin blushes to the very tips of his ears. 

Leon nods and then abruptly shakes his head. “I just went back to pay the bill and spoke with Thomas for a while. I didn’t see her again.” 

Gwaine looks disturbingly disappointed and nods. “Right, just you and your” – He makes the obscene gesture again and Arthur whacks him on the shins with the flat of his sword to stop him from talking. The sound of steel on steel clashes with Gwaine’s loud laughter. Merlin laughs too, the remnants of his blush high on his cheekbones. 

Arthur turns to the rest of the training field and raises his voice, effortlessly grabbing the attention of everyone present. “Alright! We’ll be going through the routine moves we practised last week. After that we’ll be duelling one on one. Everyone in position!” The final shout rings over the yard and everyone immediately moves to stand in a square with enough space between each man to move comfortably. 

Gwaine stands straight from where he’d been leaning against the wall. “One on one? You sure you want to risk it?” 

Arthur’s grin slides into a smirk. “As if I have anything to fear from you.” 

Gwaine walks past them and then turns around, walking backwards to his own position in the square. The heavy mail doesn’t seem to bother him. “Two gold coins say I knock you flat on your back in two seconds.” He grins like a rogue and doesn’t wait for Arthur’s answer; simply turns around again. Leon moves to follow him, but turns when he sees Merlin moving from the corner of his eyes. 

Merlin is fiddling with the strap of the upper cannon on Arthur’s left arm. He’s not even looking to see what his hands are doing. His blue eyes are locked on Arthur’s face. He looks painfully sincere. “Gwaine’s a good warrior, but no one can beat you in a fight.” His voice is soft, quiet, clearly meant for Arthur’s ears alone. 

Arthur nods. “I know.” He sounds confident, but reassured at the same time. Leon, embarrassed, quickly looks away and keeps walking. He knows Merlin and Arthur are close; friends in a way that Leon doesn’t understand and he feels like he intruded on a moment just between the two of them. He forces himself not to glance back and keeps walking until he is in position. 

Arthur is as ruthless as always. He shouts the moves at them one by one, stands in front of them to demonstrate. He makes them go through the paces time and time again until he is satisfied they all know it by heart. He doesn’t break for a few minutes like he sometimes does but goes straight to the sparring duels. He keeps throwing together surprising combinations to make sure no one gets used to facing only one style in battle. Leon’s shoulders are aching underneath the weight of the plate and his right arm is buckling as he needs to block Percival’s swings time and again. They feel like sledgehammers; the impact vibrating up to his shoulder. 

He switches to his left hand halfway through and spares one second of concentration to thank Arthur for tying all of their right hands behind their backs every two weeks or so to make sure they’re as good with their left as with their right. Percival might be as broad as a tree-trunk, but Leon is tall and strong too. He has years of experience and speed on his side. Still, it takes an enormous effort to knock Percival to the ground. When he finally does so, both arms are aching and he’s limping slightly because the strap of his poleyn had come loose and one of Percival’s blows had clipped him on the knee. 

The aches lessen though when Arthur gives him a nod; a silent ‘well done’ between the two of them. Leon pulls off his helmet and feels the sweat run down the side of his face. He knows his hair is plastered to his skull and he thinks longingly of the bath his servant will have drawn up by the time he gets back to his room. He leans against the wall next to Gwaine while Arthur calls out for the next two combatants to take their place: Sir Tristan and Sir Bors. 

Leon takes a deep breath and slowly tests his knee, leaning his weight on it. A twinge makes him stop and he carefully tries to bend and stretch, but the muscles won’t cooperate. 

“Do you need to see Gaius?” Gwaine asks quietly. 

Leon considers it. “I will if it doesn’t clear.” 

Gwaine just nods. He looks relaxed. He’s calm; almost idle. Some people, Leon knows, would consider Gwaine the least trustworthy knight. He drinks, he flirts, makes inappropriate jokes, lewd gestures, pretends to be a commoner and makes a habit of challenging Arthur. Leon knows better. Gwaine has the instincts of a warrior, is unfailingly loyal to his friends, takes his vows seriously, takes his duties seriously and has never let them down before. He might not have come to Camelot’s aid for Arthur’s sake and he probably would have walked away if it hadn’t been for Merlin but none of it matters because he’s one of them. He claps Gwaine on the shoulder. 

Tristan gets thrashed by Bors. It’s not surprising; the older knight is built like a boar and has years of experience. Tristan has only been made a knight of Camelot for a little while and the squires don’t receive as intense training as the knights do. When it is over Bors helps Tristan to his feet and claps him on the back, nearly sending the youth back to sprawl in the grass. They all laugh good-naturedly and Tristan grins. 

“Alright,” Arthur says, “that leaves Gwaine and I.” He turns to Gwaine with a challenging twinkle in his eyes. Gwaine just grins, rolls his shoulders beneath the mail and steps into the fighting ring. 

In battle, Arthur prefers to rush his enemies and overwhelm them with the force of his strength and skill. In duels and tournaments, he likes to take his time if he can; assessing his enemy the way his teachers have been drilling into him since boyhood. Gwaine, however, is more impatient and likes the element of surprise no matter what the situation. He takes an immediate swing from high to low, aiming for Arthur’s left side. Arthur switches sword hands in the time it takes to blink and blocks it expertly, the tip of his sword pointed downwards. He flips the sword over the back of his hand so he can grip it with the tip upwards and lunges deep, one knee forward, arm outstretched. He almost hits Gwaine on the side of his helmet but the other knight manages to duck away just in time. 

They’re fast and strong. The sound of steel rings over the yard and for a moment Leon isn’t sure who will win. They seem to lunge, parry, twist, swing and block endlessly. Leon knows how they must feel; like every muscle in the body is straining and aching. The only thing that keeps you going is training and determination. Arthur twists, lunges sideways, makes Gwaine turn with him to block and abruptly falls to one knee to punch Gwaine in the back of his knee, where the strap of the poleyn digs into the protective padding. Arthur doesn’t pull that move often. It is considered dishonourable by some and would probably not be permitted in a tournament. Yet one of Uther’s old knights had taught him anyway. In battle any move that saves your life or the life of a comrade is honourable. 

Gwaine’s knee buckles and he’s kneeling on the grass, unexpectedly winded. Arthur doesn’t let up; he stands and swings downward with his sword. Gwaine brings his sword up, but his block is clumsy and Arthur bears down with his entire weight. He doesn’t give Gwaine time to get up, hammers down instead until Gwaine can’t keep blocking. He loses his sword and falls back on the ground. Arthur immediately stops and steps back. Gwaine stays down for a second, panting on his back, before he sits up and pulls his helmet off. Arthur does the same. 

“I’ve never seen anyone do that before.” Gwaine says, grinning. “Think you could teach me that.” 

Arthur laughs and holds out a hand to pull him up. “Next week, maybe.” He grins. 

They shake hands and Arthur gathers the knights around him. He points out where they were sloppy and what they need to work on, but gives a few words of praise to those who performed admirably. He demands that they do the same to him and they do, not pulling any punches. Arthur nods with his face drawn in a serious frown. He thanks them for their honesty and then dismisses them from the yard. A few stay to exchange words but most head to the armoury to have their armour removed and taken care of by their squires. Leon opts for the latter. His knee doesn’t seem to be giving him any trouble and he’s confident the lingering pain will fade after a soak in the bath. He doesn’t have any duties until late at night when he’ll be patrolling the corridors of the citadel. Something stirs at the thought but dies down before he can notice. 

The bath seems to fully ease the muscles of his knee and when he dresses for supper there’s nothing wrong with it. He joins the other knights at the dining hall. He cranes his neck, looking for Arthur, but the young prince isn’t there. He thinks Arthur must be dining alone in his chambers, until he spots Merlin talking to Lancelot. He takes a seat next to them. They exchange a few words of greeting and Merlin makes a joke that makes both Leon and Lancelot laugh loudly. 

“I didn’t get a chance to ask earlier, but how’s your head?” Leon asks, “You had a bit too much last night.” 

Lancelot grimaces. “I’m glad I only had a meeting with Sir Bors about getting a squire this morning. I would have been useless on patrol. I had time to see Gaius after and he put me right as rain.” 

Percival sits down next to Lancelot, opposite Leon who is sitting next to Merlin and helps himself to the enormous platter of bread. Leon grabs a piece himself. “That was a good fight this afternoon,” he says, “I was afraid you were going to tear my arm off.” 

Percival nods. “I have strength on my side.” He takes a bite and chews slowly. “Arthur is right though, I need to work on my speed. Strength won’t help me if they’re too fast for me to hit.” 

“Oh I don’t know,” Gwaine says, sitting down on Merlin’s other side, “you’re a big fellow. If they’re too fast for you to hit you could just throw yourself in their direction. You’ll crush them underneath you before they have enough time to dodge your oncoming shadow.” 

Percival gives a small grin. “All of me _and_ all that mail, there’d be nothing left to bury.” 

They laugh and Leon passes Merlin the platter of bread when he catches Merlin giving it a longing glance. 

The thin young man blushes and shakes his head. “That’s for the knights isn’t it? I’m not a knight.” 

Leon shrugs and thinks of that moment when they stood around that table and Arthur asked for their loyalty. He remembers how Merlin didn’t even have to get up because they knew that he would follow Arthur anywhere. He shoves it into Merlin’s arms. “You might as well be.” 

Lancelot nods. “He’s right, Merlin. You’re one of us.” His honest and open smile looks inviting. “The only reason Arthur didn’t knight you is because holding your sword is not what you do best.” 

The two of them share a look and Merlin shakes his head, tries to protest until Gwaine elbows him sharply in the side. “Don’t worry about it. Arthur lets you eat his leftovers all the time, doesn’t he? And that’s food fit for a prince.” He drinks deeply of his goblet of wine and Merlin bites into his piece of bread. “Speaking of Arthur,” Gwaine adds, “where is he? If he isn’t here and you are, where’s he getting his meal?” 

Merlin chews and swallows quickly. “Gwen made dinner for the both of them at her house.” 

Gwaine grins and Leon watches as Lancelot’s smile grows shuttered, closed. He pretends not to see and changes the subject. “Any of you seen Elyan?” 

Gwaine shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him since last night.” 

Lancelot shakes his head, but has that shifty-eyed look that means he’s lying. Percival is quiet but casts a look in Lancelot’s direction. Leon decides not to push them and instead motions for one of the pages to fill his bowl with the thick, brown stew. The others do the same and Gwaine forces Merlin to accept a bowl. “You should eat more. You look like Terence could you knock you over with Camelot’s standard.”

“Who’s Terence?” 

Gwaine shrugs. “My squire.” At Merlin’s questioning eyebrows he continues, “He hasn’t been my squire for very long. Sir Bors introduced us just two days ago. I think he’s hoping I’ll stop going to the tavern so much if I have to set a good example.” 

“Taking a squire is a noble pursuit.” Lancelot says. 

Gwaine snorts. “It is, but he looks like a small breeze could knock him over. I’ve given him some exercises to do, try to get some muscle on him.” 

The conversation goes on from there with Lancelot enquiring further into the duties of squires and pages and the differences between them. Leon tells them a brief story about the days when he and Arthur were only pages and Merlin’s eyes grow wide at the thought that there was once a time when Arthur wasn’t tall and strong and invincible. The conversation slips into Merlin’s childhood adventures followed by Lancelot and Percival. Leon leaves them to it to get ready for evening patrol. The doublet, chainmail hauberk, surcoat and cape feel light compared to the plate he had to wear all afternoon but there’s an odd anxiety in his belly weighing him down. 

The sun has nearly disappeared beneath the horizon when he takes over from the previous guard. He watches the twilight sky from the windows of the corridor as he calmly patrols the citadel, checking for intruders. The heavy feeling in his belly sinks deeper and deeper into his gut. Something is wrong but he does not know what. He is not physically ill; it feels different even if he does not know how. He briefly debates going to Gaius but what can the old man do against a feeling of ... of ... foreboding. Something will happen, but what? He tightens his fingers around the handle of his sword when he casts another look out of the window. 

All the pink has vanished from the sky and the azure blue of day is slowly gathering the oncoming night. The feeling in his gut tightens and then explodes outward. At the same time something surges outward from behind his eyeballs and his whole body seizes. There is no sound, no sight, nothing until a stabbing pain _somewhere_ makes him cry out before darkness seizes him entirely. 

To Be Continued


	3. Chapter 3

Leon comes to slowly; a drawn-out crawl out of the darkness like he’s pulling himself forward on the strength of his fingernails. When he blinks himself back into consciousness he wishes he hadn’t. A dull throbbing pain makes itself known in the vicinity of his left knee and behind his eyelids. He manages to right himself up into a sitting position and looks down through bleary vision. One leg of his trousers has been cut off and his knee has been fit with a hard bandage made of linen soaked in egg yolk. It forms a protective case and a brace at the same time. When he tries to move, a sharp, stabbing pain burrows its way upward and he falls back. It’s the straw beneath his hands that finally makes him rub the blurriness from his eyes and look at his surroundings. 

He is not in his room in the barracks, nor in the house his family owns in the Upper Town and while he has never been on this side of the bars before, he has stood on the other side often enough to recognize a cell when he’s in one. The straw he’s lying on is fresh at least and with some puzzlement he’s aware he should be grateful for that. He stares dumbly for awhile and then the questions come, slowly, as if his brain is fighting through sludge to work. What is he doing in the cell? What happened to his knee? Why was he arrested? It’s when he’s ransacking his brain for the answers that he realizes he doesn’t have any answers. He doesn’t have any recollection of the previous night either. 

He can remember going on morning patrol, through the Darkling Woods. After that there was training with the knights in full plate and he’d been the last person on the field. He’d had a bath, gone to supper, prepared for patrol in the citadel but couldn’t remember if he’d actually left to relieve the previous rotation. Had he? It’s hard enough to think of the question, never mind the answer. A headache is building behind his eyes and he presses his hand against them, as if he’s trying to squeeze them back into his skull. 

“Good, you’re awake.” 

He hears the door to the cell open with the hinges protesting loudly. He drops his hand from his eyes. Arthur steps inside and holds out a tin cup of water. He is alone so Leon takes it. His throat is parched, but it’s a minor inconvenience compared to everything else. He drinks though because he might not be able to speak if he does not. 

“What happened?” It comes out a rasp, scratching against his throat and he takes another gulp of water. 

Arthur’s face is devoid from any humour when he asks, “You do not remember?” If the cell wasn’t enough to make him worry, that emotionless face is. 

Leon shakes his head. “The last thing I remember is putting on my chainmail.” The memory causes him to look down again and he notices that he isn’t wearing it. He’s wearing a simple shirt and his maimed trousers but nothing else. There’s a blanket trapped underneath him. 

Arthur watches him silently for a minute, grim and serious but his eyes frantic in his eye sockets. Leon has never seen him like this before. His heart starts pounding and then it nearly stops when Arthur says, “You tried to kill the king.” 

The cup falls from his hand and he doesn’t even notice when the left over water colours the straw from gold to brown. 

“What?” His voice is a dry rasp.

“Last night, one of the guards found you in my father’s chamber, ready to cleave his chest open with your sword. He saved the king’s life by tackling you to the floor. You fractured your knee. Gaius thinks you probably weakened it in training recently. You passed out.” 

Each word cuts him like the sharp slice of a dagger, each small wound tearing and bleeding because he didn’t. He _wouldn’t_. He had sworn an oath to Uther. He had sworn an oath to _Arthur_ and he would rather die before breaking that vow. He tries to stand up or kneel or do something, but his knee gives out from underneath him and he falls back. He barely manages to brace himself on his elbow. 

“Arthur! I would never, I never-” his voice breaks and he has to cough several times before he can speak again. “I would never harm the king.” He manages to brace himself on his elbow. 

“You were caught in the act, Leon!” Arthur hisses. There is a note of desperation in his voice and a wildness in his eyes that Leon has never seen before. “If Edward hadn’t seen you and stopped you, the king, _my father_ , would be dead.” 

“I have always been loyal to Camelot, to your father and to you, Arthur. I would never-”

“It doesn’t matter!” Arthur’s voice echoes of the stone walls and he quiets down with a quick glance down the empty corridor. “It doesn’t matter what you would or wouldn’t do,” he lowers his voice, but he still sounds furious, “You were caught in the act. There were witnesses. The proof is irrefutable.” 

“If I wanted the king dead I would have bent my knee to Morgana and sworn my undying loyalty,” Leon whispers back and wishes he could stand up. There is an ache growing in his chest and he wants to yell the next words, but doesn’t. “I would never betray Camelot.” 

He meets Arthur’s eyes and they flutter closed with a sigh. Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointy finger. His fingers fan out, upwards to rub his forehead with a sigh. “I know.” He slowly lowers himself down on the floor, next to Leon. Their shoulders touch and Arthur bends one knee close to his chest. “I know.” His voice is low and deep. He sounds tired and Leon wonders how much sleep he had last night after Leon was arrested; thinking Leon had tried to kill his father and his king. Arthur stares at the opposite wall through the bars. “I know you would never betray your king or betray me by killing my father.” 

Some of the pressure inside Leon’s chest lessens at the words. Arthur, at the very least, believes in him. That is something to be grateful for. If Arthur believes in him, he can take whatever comes next the way a knight of Camelot would.

“So what happens now?” 

Arthur sighs. “There were witnesses, Leon. Edward tackled you to the ground, two servant girls saw him do it. You were apprehended and the whole castle heard about it in a matter of hours.” 

Leon knows what Arthur isn’t saying. “Your father’s council knows.” 

Arthur leans his head back against the stone behind him. He breathes “yes” and closes his eyes. “They called an emergency meeting this morning, told me that they want me to take a firm stand against traitors to the crown. Morgana usurping the throne made us look weak. My father’s continuing absence makes us look weak. I need to take a stand.” 

Leon knows this. He also knows Arthur cannot vouch for him. Leon is already considered part of Arthur’s inner circle and to take his side in this against such obvious proof would be considered blatant favouritism. It would discredit Arthur’s and Camelot’s reputation. It would besmirch Leon’s reputation as well. His loyalty will be questioned. Those who do not believe him will believe the evidence. Some will consider him a traitor to the crown. If he cannot prove his innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt, there will always be whispers behind his back. He looks at Arthur and wants to reassure him that everything will be alright. It’s not fair for Arthur to have to deal with all of this on top of his father’s illness and his numerous duties as regent and crown prince.

“You have to put me on trial,” he says. 

Arthur laughs, but it’s cheerless and bleak. “You won’t survive a trial. They’ll demand your execution. I will have to condemn you to the pyre.” 

Leon shakes his head. “I’d prefer the chopping block to be honest.” 

Arthur punches him in the shoulder. “It’s not funny, Leon!” He rests his wrist on his knee. “If you die I’ll have to appoint another Captain of the Guard. Do you have any idea what kind of a hassle that is?” There’s a beat of silence.

“I know,” Leon says, because he knows everything that Arthur will never say.

Arthur nods and takes a deep breath, “A public trial would force me to condemn you. If it comes to that ....” He trails off but Leon knows him, knows Arthur. 

He shakes his head and says, “They’d know it was you. Besides,” he taps the hard bandage on his left leg, “I wouldn’t get very far.” 

Arthur nods. “I know.” There’s a heavy sigh when he says: “I can put off your trial for a week. We have that long to prove your innocence some other way.” He claps Leon on the shoulder. “I’m not going to give up on you.” He looks away again. “What exactly do you remember?” 

Leon resists the urge to scratch at the itch in his beard and says: “I don’t remember anything.” 

“Walk me through the day. There has to be something.” 

“I got up in the morning, had breakfast and went on patrol through the Darkling Woods. After that there was lunch and training with the knights. I had a bath, got ready for guard duty at night and then... nothing. There’s nothing, like I had too much to drink only without the drink.” 

Arthur keeps frowning. “There was nothing odd; nothing out of the ordinary?” 

“Nothing.” Leon confirms.

Arthur’s loose hand turns into a fist. “There must be something! You must have been ... bewitched.” 

“Arthur...” 

“That must be it! There is no other explanation.” Arthur says. 

“You mustn’t jump to conclusions.” Leon tries to warn him, but Arthur shakes his head. 

“Can you think of anything else?” 

Leon shakes his head again. “No, I can’t. But if you declare that I must have been bewitched and you go on a witch hunt through the city, think of how that will look. It will look like you’re protecting your friend by accusing an innocent person of witchcraft!” 

“My father wouldn’t hesitate to track down the witch or wizard responsible.” 

Leon just looks at him. 

Arthur grits his teeth. “Fine.” He sighs. “I’ll ask Gaius if he knows anything about a spell that works like that or if he’s heard or seen anything in his capacity as physician. He wouldn’t tell anyone.” He looks at the fallen tin cup and adds: “I’ll get Merlin down here with some breakfast for you. If you remember or think of anything, tell the guards to fetch me.” He stands. 

Leon nods. “I will.” He hesitates and stretches out his hand to Arthur, “Thank you.” 

They clasp hands, looks each other in the eyes and Arthur says; “You would do the same for me.” 

There is no question about it. Leon has always been Arthur’s most trusted knight. They were pages and squires together once upon a time. When Arthur had advanced as a young prince should and took command of the knights, Leon had been appointed as Captain of the Guard. They had served and trained and fought together for many years. Leon, trapped in Morgana’s dungeon, had stood fast and true to his king, country and to Arthur. They had always been friends, even in times when Arthur had thought that a prince couldn’t have true friends. 

He hesitates. He wants to say something else, press his palm hard against Leon’s and tell him that he’d do anything, _anything_ at all to get him out of this. He wants to tell Leon how much he matters, but that might feel like an admission, like he’s saying it now because he won’t get another chance. Leon squeezes his hand. “I know.”

He leaves the cell behind him and makes a mental note to order Merlin to bring Leon a second blanket when he brings Leon breakfast. The cells are a cold place and Leon was only wearing a shirt and one trouser leg. He nods at the guards and watches as they take their position in the hallway in front of Leon’s cell. He’d ordered them away so he could talk to Leon in peace. He knows, though, that if they did over hear anything they wouldn’t breathe a word of it. Arthur is loved by his people, respected by his knights and so is Leon. He is the youngest Captain of the Guard in the history of Camelot and people find it easy to approach him to speak on their behalf if they have been wronged. Distracted, Arthur is about to climb the stairs back to the castle when he catches a glimpse of a blue neckerchief. He stops in his tracks and looks over his shoulders at his manservant. 

“Eavesdropping Merlin?” 

Merlin shakes his head. “No, I was just making sure that...” He trails off, uncomfortable.

“Making sure that, what?” 

“I mean,” he shrugs, “I just wanted to make sure that he was alright and that he knows we believe in him.” 

He says it so easily. As if there is nothing difficult about wearing his heart on his sleeve like that and telling people how he feels and how he _believes_ in them earnestly, honestly. Arthur doesn’t know how he does it; how he looks at Arthur and simply says _those things_. 

“Of course he knows, _Mer_ lin,” he snaps. He ascends the stairs and Merlin quickly follows; gangly legs eating up steps two at a time to catch up to him. 

“Of course, so, he doesn’t remember anything?” Merlin asks. Arthur shakes his head at Merlin’s answer and at Merlin’s audacity, but Merlin doesn’t take it that way. “Well, yes, I heard that. But you’re right, there must be something.” 

“There’s something called magic, _Mer_ lin.” He ignores the way Merlin’s face falls at the words. He knows that Merlin isn’t afraid of magic or as ready to dismiss it as others. After all, he was friends with a warlock for years and obviously believed that Will wasn’t evil. Arthur doesn’t know what to think. All he knows is that all those times he and his got hurt, magic was somehow to blame. “I’ll speak to Gaius and see if he knows any spells that cause a man to act out of the ordinary and then forget all about it. I want you to get Leon some breakfast and a second blanket.” 

Merlin nods. “I will. What will you tell the other knights?” 

Arthur stops in his tracks. He hadn’t considered the other knights yet. They will have heard the rumours by now. Some of the youngest knights will believe them, but the older ones, those who’ve known Leon for years won’t. Merlin stops two feet ahead and turns back to look at him. Arthur sighs. “Never mind the other knights. If they ask anything just tell them that Leon has been accused of treason and he will stand trial in a week’s time.” 

Merlin nods. “Alright.” Those blue eyes look at him, up and down, all of him and Arthur ignores the way it makes him feel like Merlin can look _inside_ of him. 

“What?” he snaps. 

“Are you alright?” Arthur doesn’t answer. “I mean, he’s your friend. You must be worried.” 

He steps closer and Merlin leans closer, in confidence. “Yes, I’m worried... that you’ll forget his breakfast and that blanket!” His voice snaps like a whip and Merlin recoils, frowning, disappointed that Arthur didn’t cry on his shoulder like a girl. 

Arthur watches him leave for the kitchens and the lower store rooms. He takes a turn at the next corridor and goes to his own chambers. He’ll give Leon one of his old jackets to wear over his shirt. After that he will go to see Gaius. He trusts that the old physician will know something that can help him. Gaius always does, even if Arthur has a feeling that he isn’t always completely honest about what he does and doesn’t know. Maybe he should ask Merlin about it; he and Gaius are as close as father and son. 

There’s a knock on the door. “Come.” Arthur yells, still dinging in his closet. He knows that there is an old jacket in the back that Merlin never got round to mending, that lazy lay-about. 

“Arthur!” He stops and turns around. Guinevere is standing with her back to the closed door, a concerned look on her face. “I heard that Leon has been accused of treason? That he’s been seen trying to kill the king?” She sounds like she can’t believe it. Arthur couldn’t either when he’d first heard. 

“Leon has been accused of treason. He’ll stand trial in a week.” His words feel inadequate and Gwen looks horrified. 

“He would never! When Morgana locked him up he refused to betray Uther and he kept refusing even when she threatened to kill him!” She looks near tears and Arthur feels that twist in his chest he always feels when Guinevere is upset. 

He steps away from the closet and closer to her. He pulls her into the circle of his arms. “We’re trying everything we can to prove his innocence.” The hand curled around her shoulder squeezes softly, “Trust me, Guinevere.” 

She presses her face against his shoulders and he holds her close in his arms, takes comfort in giving her comfort. He presses a kiss against her forehead. 

“Leon and I ... my mother was a servant in his father’s household before his parents moved back to the keep in Conway. My mother took me with her to learn how to tend to a lady and his mother taught us both how to read.” She hiccups against his shoulder. “After he became a page we weren’t so close anymore, but he’s still my friend.” 

He holds her close and doesn’t know what to say to that. Eventually he says; “Leon and I were pages together and squires after that. We shared a room in the barracks for several years. We made a pact to be knights together some day.” He laughs quietly. “As if we’d ever be anything else.” Gwen gives a weak chuckle at that and he pulls back and kisses her lightly on the mouth. He wants to keep her there, close forever, but he has duties and a friend to fight for. “I have to go now. I have to speak with Gaius, maybe he knows something.” 

She nods and steps out of his arms. He misses the feel of her already, soft and warm against his chest. “If there is anything I can do,” she tells him, “let me know.” 

He smiles. This is what he loves about her; her selflessness, her concern for other people and how she is willing to care for them. She’ll make a great queen one day, if she wants to be. “I will, Gwen, thank you.” He hesitates, not sure if it’s the time, but he wants to cheer up so he adds; “and thank you for last night. Dinner was lovely.” 

She smiles, shyly and lovely. “It was.” she agrees and it’s enough to set his heart beating faster. He kisses her again; a little harder and a little longer. She smiles. “I’ll let you go talk to Gaius now.” She reaches up and brushes some hair away from his forehead and then she leaves. He stares at the closed door for a bit before he turns back to the closet and digs around for that old jacket. 

To Be Continued ...


	4. Chapter 4

The news of Leon’s arrest swept through the Citadel and by the morning of the second day everyone had heard about it and had something to say about it. Most people didn’t believe it, but there were some who snickered behind their hands and whispered about how low the mighty had fallen. Merlin would very much like to trip them up in the courtyard or make them drop their shoppings but with Arthur desperately looking for the sorcerer that enchanted Leon, it’s better not to risk it. 

Instead he spends his time leafing through books in Gaius’ chambers or wandering about the Lower Town, hoping to find something that might be of use. He does have a habit of stumbling unto people with magic but it doesn’t seem like his luck is holding out. In the meantime there’s not much else to go on. He eavesdropped on Leon and Arthur’s conversation so he knows he’s looking for an artefact or a spell or something that could make a man do something and then forget all about it. The problem is that there is a wide variety of spells, incantations or artefacts to choose from. Although, usually they involve placing a token on the man’s clothing to control him from afar. 

Merlin has gone through Leon’s room and his armour and his clothes but there was nothing. He briefly considers whether someone painted a token on Leon’s body but those usually vanish after the spell has stopped working and it certainly looks like whatever it was that controlled Leon is no longer controlling him. Some spells require something that the enchanted owned but Leon’s squire swears up and down that nothing is missing. Some of the really dark spells require hair and fingernails but Merlin reckons Leon would have noticed if someone had cut of his hair and his fingernails. 

It’s frustrating though, because Arthur is growing crankier and crankier with the knowledge that he might not find any conclusive evidence that Leon is innocent. Merlin doesn’t blame him. He knows how important Leon is to Arthur. They grew up together. They’re brothers in arms. He knows all of this; has seen it in the worry in Arthur’s eyes when Leon’s patrol is late coming in, _again_. The thought that Arthur might have to condemn one of his oldest friends to death must be torturing him. Still, it might be nice if Arthur remembered that Leon is Merlin’s friend too and didn’t throw shoes at him when Merlin brings him breakfast. 

“He nearly got me this time too. I’m just lucky I’ve got quick reflexes by now,” Merlin says, looking glumly at the sheer number of weapons in the armoury. He’s hoping that he might find a controlling mark on any of them. It’s desperate and a long shot, but he really has no idea what to do and Leon’s trial is in three days. 

“What exactly are we looking for?” Lancelot asks him, picking up a sword and giving it a close look. 

“I’m not sure,” Merlin admits, “just something that looks out of place, out of the ordinary.” 

“Right ... and why is Percival guarding the door?” 

“Because if we find what we’re looking for I might have to do some things that I wouldn’t want just anyone to see.” 

“Right,” Lancelot nods and puts the sword back. “Do you think you’ll be able to help Leon?” 

“Well, Arthur thinks that magic has something to do with it and I agree. I just have to find out what happened before I can figure out who did it and how to get the evidence. It’s a lot easier, usually. I at least have some idea of who to follow or something.” 

Lancelot nods thoughtfully. “What about people Leon talked to?” 

Merlin shrugs, picking up a crossbow. “I checked with the guards, but nothing out of the ordinary. They didn’t meet anyone on patrol. The rest of the day he only had contact with his squire, the other knights and us of course. He doesn’t remember anything else.” 

“What about the day before?” Lancelot asks. “Did he meet anyone odd then?” 

Merlin shakes his head. “No, it was just like any other day. We went to the pub that night, but he didn’t talk to anyone after we left. He just paid the tab and then left.” 

Lancelot frowns and straightens from where he’d been standing bent over a shield. He turns around to look at Merlin. “That’s not true.” 

Merlin looks up. “What?” 

“Elyan said he saw that girl take Leon upstairs to one of the rooms.” 

Merlin resists the urge to gape. “What? But Leon said that he didn’t see her after we left. Did Elyan see Leon leave?” 

Lancelot shakes his head “He didn’t say. After Leon went upstairs, Elyan left with a girl. Percival told me it was the girl he’d been eyeing all night. I don’t quite remember I’m afraid.” 

Merlin can feel his tips of his ears turning pink at the mere implication and then frowns. “Wait, who was eyeing which girl?” 

Lancelot blinks at him. “What?” 

“Which... never mind. Why would Leon say that he hadn’t seen her again after we left?” 

Lancelot shrugs, “I don’t know. Leon isn’t exactly the bragging sort, is he? Maybe he didn’t want anyone to know. Or maybe Elyan was too deep in his cups to know what he was seeing. I don’t know. You should ask him.” 

Merlin can feel that nudge in the back of his brain that means this is something important, somehow. “Do you have any idea where Elyan is?” 

“I’m not sure, but he said something about using his father’s workshop to fix some of the nicks in his sword.” 

“Right,” Merlin says, “I’m going to go talk to him.” 

He starts for the door when Lancelot asks, “What about me?” 

“You keep looking. If you see anything out of the ordinary, come find me.” He leaves the armoury and waves at Percival who’s still guarding the door. He leaves the Citadel and walks past the posh houses in the Upper Town. It takes about half an hour to walk to Gwen’s little house in the decent part of the Lower Town. It’s a bright day with lots of sunshine and Merlin hopes that some of the light will reach Leon’s cell through the window because Merlin knows first-hand how cold it can be down there. 

Elyan has a bunk in a shared room in the barracks, like all the other knights, but occasionally he walks Gwen home after dark and spends the night at her place. He worries about her, alone in the Lower Town. Gwen might live in a good neighbourhood, but it’s still the Lower Town. 

He also uses their father’s smithy to fix his armour and sometimes the armour of the other knights. Elyan would have been a good smith if he hadn’t become a knight. He had left Camelot to travel and to pay his way he had often helped the blacksmiths in the towns he ended up in. He knocks on the door to the smithy next to Gwen’s house. There’s the clang of steel on steel and then Elyan’s voice yells from behind the door: “Come in!” 

It’s hot inside the smithy. The coals in the forge are glowing and there is steam coming from a barrel in the corner where Elyan is holding a blade in the water. He’s taken off his shirt and wrapped rags around his hands to protect them from heated steel. His forehead and chest are covered in sweat and he’s breathing heavily. He looks like a statue sculpted out of dark marble, partly hidden by the steam. The sunshine is streaming in through the open walls in the back. A few beams hold up the roof and the small yard beyond is strewn with weeds and rusted, unrecognizable objects made of iron. The smithy looks like something between ‘neglected’ and ‘in use.’ 

“Can I help you, Merlin?” Elyan asks. He balances the sword on the edge of the barrel so it won’t slide in when he lets go of it. He casually wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, catching his sweat with the cloth. 

Merlin resists the urge to cough in the stifling heat and wishes he wasn’t wearing a long-sleeved tunic and his brown jacket. He tugs at his neckerchief. “Yes, I was wondering; did you hear about what happened with Leon?” 

Elyan nods. There’s a serious look on his face instead of the usual, crooked smile. “I can’t really believe it. I mean, it’s _Leon_ of all people. He’s the one that comes and lectures me every time I miss practice. He’s all about duty and loyalty and all of that.” He rests his hips against the wooden table behind him. “I can’t really believe he would try to kill the king.”

“I can’t believe it either,” Merlin says. Elyan nods and looks at him. It’s only two beats later that he realizes Elyan is waiting for him to speak. He starts and says, “Right, I was wondering,” He forces himself not to start babbling and says, “Lancelot said that you’d seen Leon go upstairs with that girl from The Singing Hedgehog?” 

Elyan shrugs. “Yeah, I was talking to Beth when I saw her and Leon go upstairs. There’s a room or two with a bed that the girls can use to stay in if they haven’t got any place else. Or if they want someplace private.” He wiggles his eyebrows. 

Merlin flushes and hopes Elyan either doesn’t notice or thinks it’s from the heat. “You’re sure you saw them?” 

Elyan rolled his eyes. “Yes, I saw them, I wasn’t _that_ drunk.” 

Merlin pulled at his neckerchief again. “Did you see them come downstairs again?” 

Elyan shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. I left with Beth not long after that and I don’t think they came down again before that. Why?” 

Merlin shrugs. “I think I might know what happened. I have to go talk to Leon. Thanks, Elyan.” 

The young knight just shrugs and takes up the sword in the barrel again. “Anything I can to help Leon, Merlin.” 

Merlin leaves the small house and runs back to the Citadel through the Upper Town. He nearly runs over a servant dressed in blue livery and only shouts “Sorry!” over his shoulder when normally he would have stopped to make sure the bloke was alright. He’s grateful for the cold air in the dungeons after the heat of Elyan’s forge. The guards give him the stink-eye, but he pretends he’s come to collect the remains of Leon’s lunch and they let him pass. 

They open the cell door for him so he can step inside and collect the tray. He picks it up and says, “Leon, Arthur was wondering...” He stops and turns to the guards still standing there. He gives them his best ‘get out’ look. It’s modelled on the one Arthur uses but it probably doesn’t work as well because they don’t move, even if they do share an uneasy glance. He stands straighter, nods wildly and waves his arms in the universal gesture of great emphasis. They share that look again and finally leave, glaring at Merlin in the process. 

Leon is looking slightly bemused. Merlin can’t imagine being bemused while in Leon’s situation. He crouches down so they’re at the same eye level. It feels weird standing over Leon like that. It feels like he’s looming and Merlin just isn’t the looming type. “How are you?” 

Leon shrugs and shifts so he’s sitting up straighter, leaning his back against the stone wall behind him. There’s a blanket jammed in between the wall and Leon’s body to stop the cold from seeping in through his back. “I’m alright, considering the circumstances. Has Arthur found anything out yet?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, he hasn’t. He’s doing his best though. We all are.” 

“I know, thank you, Merlin.” He shifts again and Merlin quickly helps him shift his left leg so it’s more comfortable on the hay pallet instead of on the stone floor. 

“Did Gaius say how long you’ll have to keep the hard bandage?” Merlin asks. 

“For at least two more weeks, if I have that kind of time.” Leon says it casually, like it’s not a big deal that he’s down here and that he might not be alive anymore in two weeks time. Merlin has seen many people in the dungeons, waiting for their death, but rarely has he seen them so calm.

“We’re working on it. If it was up to Arthur you’d have all the time in the world. He’s really worried.” Merlin bites his lip and wishes there was more he could say. “I’m sure everything will work out.” 

Leon smiles, “I’m sure you’re right.” There’s something sombre about his eyes. “Keep an eye on Arthur for me, though. If you don’t find whoever enchanted me on time, they might go after him next.” 

There’s a beat of silence and Merlin looks him straight in the eyes. “I won’t let that happen. I give you my word.” He’s saved Arthur’s life enough times. He’s stopped warlocks, false knights, gryphons, questing beasts, dragons and dozens of other things from killing Arthur. He’s not going to let some cowardly girl who needs to enchant a loyal knight of Camelot to do her dirty work for her kill Arthur.

Leon stares back at him. Merlin’s a cheerful person and it makes people sit up and pay attention when he is serious, looking so solemn and full of valour. He looks like there’s more to him than meets the eye; some conviction hidden in his chest that only he knows. Leon smiles, something relieved in the way his shoulders slump down now. He smiles. “I know. I have no doubt you’d do anything in your power to protect Arthur.” 

Merlin swallows and doesn’t know what to say. He knows a blush is blooming over his cheeks because his face is stupid like that. He resists the urge to scrub at it with his sleeve and instead just coughs, looks away. “I was wondering, do you remember in the courtyard before practice that day you were ... arrested?” 

“I remember.” 

“You said that you left The Singing Hedgehog after you paid the tab, is that true?” 

Leon’s frowning now, but his patience stops him from asking what Merlin is getting at. “Of course it’s true.” 

“So you didn’t see that girl, Gloria? You didn’t see Gloria after we left?” 

Leon shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. Why?” 

Merlin bites his lip. “Elyan said that he saw you go upstairs with her.” 

There’s a beat of silence and then Leon shakes his head slowly. “No.... No, I paid the tab and left, that’s all I remember.” All he can remember is feeling the smooth, polished wood of the bar beneath his fingers. He exchanged a few words with Thomas about Abigail’s singing and the quality of the ale. After that, he’d turned around and left. He hadn’t seen her again, had he? He’d thought of her and had looked for her, but he hadn’t seen her. Not even a glimpse of her in the crowd or on the stairs? No, he hadn’t. He definitely hadn’t. 

Merlin is looking at him though; his gaze solemn. His eyes are blue, similar to Arthur’s. The light of the sun catches on Merlin’s hair and casts his cheekbones into shadow. Leon feels his stomach clench in dawning realization. “You think it was her. You think she put a spell on me.” 

“You didn’t have that much to drink, Leon. There’s no reason for you not to remember going up with her unless she put a spell on you.” 

Merlin has a point and Leon squashes the small part of him that’s disappointed that she didn’t _actually_ like him. He remembers her smile and Arthur’s hand on his neck, shaking him, calling him Arthur’s friend. His right hand clenches into a fist. “She served all of us. She could easily have been eavesdropping the whole time. She was there when Arthur called me his friend. I was probably the logical choice.” 

Merlin traps the edge of his sleeve between his fingers and his palm and scrubs his forehead with his cloth-covered wrist. “Probably,” he sighs and stands up, “I have to go.”

Alarm shoots through him at the tone in Merlin’s voice. “What are you going to do?” 

“I’m just going to have a chat with her,” Merlin says and takes a few steps to the door. 

“You should tell Arthur about this,” Leon says. 

Merlin just shrugs. “I could be wrong, you know and I don’t want to bother Arthur with something I’m not sure about.” Besides, it would probably be easier to stop her from killing Arthur if he didn’t actually _take Arthur with him._

“Merlin!” Leon calls after him, but the young servant is already gone. Leon curses his fractured knee when he tries to stand up and the pain forces him back down. One of the guards finds him balancing on his right knee, clutching his out-stretched left knee and a face white with sweat and pain. “Find Prince Arthur,” Leon gets out through gritted teeth. The guard hesitates and Leon bellows, “Find him!” 

The guard slams the door shut, locks it and then runs off to do his Captain’s bidding. 

To Be Continued


	5. Chapter 5

The blue sky is already streaked with pink and orange lines of cloud by the time Merlin reaches The Singing Hedgehog. When he turns the corner into Depredth Lane, he slows down from his mad dash to a slow walk. He tries to slow his breathing and settle his heartbeat. He doesn’t know how this girl managed to control Leon and he needs to be on his guard. He needs to be ready for anything she might throw at him. The last few rays of sun hit Merlin’s eyes and he shades them with his hand. He catches sight of the sign above the tavern door: a hedgehog standing on a sunflower, one paw raised and its mouth open as if it were singing. He hopes that the tavern isn’t too crowded yet. 

Stepping into the tavern is like stepping into a sea of people. It seems even more crowded than usual and Merlin stretches out his neck to look above the masses. He can’t confront her in a crowd like this. He should go back to the citadel, talk to Arthur and convince him to come back when the tavern is less crowded, in the morning. He’s about to turn around when he catches sight of her. She looks just like she did that night; blue frock, white apron and blonde hair gathered in a knot at the back of her head. She looks completely harmless; smiling, talking and carrying around tankards of ale. No one knows what she could do. He catches sight of a few young knights in the far corner. She could turn around and enchant any one of them to kill the king.

The longer he looks at her, the angrier he gets. He can feel it swelling inside of him. It’s hard enough to live a life in the shadows like he does; when no one can openly admit that he's ever done anything useful. It’s hard enough dedicating his life to Arthur when Arthur doesn’t even know how much Merlin does for him. One day he’ll have to convince Arthur that magic isn’t the horrible, evil force Uther made it out to be and how can anyone expect him to do that when they keep abusing their powers to hurt people? How can they stand themselves? People like her have been given this wonderful gift and they abuse it to hurt and scare people. He’s just so angry, so furious and he can’t let her walk around like this anymore. 

She’s setting down two tankards of ale when he appears behind her. He curves his palm around the blunt point of her elbow and pulls her away from the table. He leans forward, like a friend whispering a secret. 

“I know what you did to Leon.” 

She slowly turns her head to look at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice is a whisper, but there’s a harsh tone of warning in there; hidden behind her voice soft. 

“Sure you don’t.” He slides his grip from her elbow to her wrist. His grip settles and he feels beneath his fingertips, hidden underneath the cloth of her sleeve, a bracelet and the round edge of an amulet biting into the palm of his hand. “I know what this is.” He whispers and tightens his grip so the amulet will press hard against her skin and she’ll feel it too. 

“Not here,” she whispers and her eyes dart over the crowd. “There’re rooms upstairs. We can talk there.” 

“Like you talked with Leon?” 

She tries to twist away from him but he holds on and pulls her closer to him. Her shoulder bumps into his upper arm and she sets the jug of wine she’s holding down on the table. She turns her head slightly so she can look at his face. She’s pretty, he idly considers, as the candlelight dances around her eyes. 

She leans in close. “We’ll talk upstairs or,” her eyes gleam gold and the man at the table behind him starts coughing in his tankard, “I’ll show all these people that what I did to Leon is just the beginning of what I can do.” 

He tightens his grip until she winces and then pulls her to the stairs. They go up side by side and she opens the door for him, all the while he holds on to her wrist. The room she takes him in has a wide bed on one side and a table on the other. A bowl of fruit and a clay pitcher have been placed at the centre of the table. She pulls away from him again and he lets her go this time. He closes the door behind him. 

“Hierest m-”

“Dyttest!” His shout makes the golden glow in her eyes vanish and her magic scatters useless in the air. 

She stares at him. “You’re a warlock?” Her eyes narrow and her jaw tightens. “I saw you with the knights.” 

“I’m Arthur’s manservant,” Merlin admits and he can see how something dark flash beneath the blue of her eyes. 

“Are you going to report me to the king, you traitor?” 

“If you turn yourself in, I won’t and Arthur might show you mercy.” 

There’s a beat of silence and then she starts laughing, harsh and bitter. “Turn myself in? I might as well build my own pyre and throw myself on it! Are you as dumb as your ears are big? Pendragons don’t know anything about mercy.” Her mouth is pulled into a sneer. “Why would I turn myself in?” 

“To save an innocent man’s life.”

Her face twists into anger. “He’s hardly innocent! He’s been loyal to Uther Pendragon for years!” 

“He’s loyal to Arthur!” Merlin argues and winces when she laughs again. 

“Like there’s a difference. Arthur has hunted people with magic for years at his father’s command. He has never stood up for any of us.” She watches as the words hit him like a blow to the chest. “I’m telling the truth, aren’t I? He’s never stood up for any of us. He wouldn’t even stand up for you, someone he goes to the tavern with and buys drinks for. He wouldn’t lift a finger to save your life if Uther figured it out and demanded your head.” 

“That’s not true.” His voice is desperate and tinged with irritation. “Arthur is different. He just grew up thinking that magic is evil, but he’s different. He’ll listen to us.” 

“You can keep fooling yourself, if you want.” Her eyes bore their way into his. “But I know the truth. Uther is a murdering tyrant and he raised his son in his own image. As long as either one of them sits the throne of Camelot, our people will be hunted down and butchered.” 

“You can’t know that!” he argues. 

She laughs. “Are you really that naïve? Your little princeling has been killing witches and wizards for years! Arresting them was as good as lighting the pyre himself.” 

He wants to shake her; wants to make her understand but he doesn’t have the words. “You haven’t met him. You haven’t spoken to him, not really. You don’t know what he’s like. I’m his servant. I spend all of my time with him and I know. I _know_ he’ll be different.” 

She’s silent, but he can see the stubborn set of her mouth. He knows that she won’t be swayed. The anger, the grief, the unreasonable hatred is etched into her face. Her vendetta against Uther is personal. He imagines that if Uther had been a kinder king, she wouldn’t be standing here. 

She shakes her head. “You’re deluding yourself. You think he’ll be fair to our people because _you_ ’re a warlock; a man he knows and trusts? You think serving him will prove to him that you’re not evil? That he doesn’t have to hunt us down and kill us out of fear?” 

“Are you even listening to yourself? You’re telling me we’ll never teach Arthur that he doesn’t have to hunt us down out of fear. You’re the one who’s trying to kill his father and his king; of course he’ll fear you!” 

“Uther started it!” she shrieks, losing control over her hatred and her voice in the process. 

“Oh that’s very mature!” he yells back. 

“You want mature?” she screams and there are tears running down her face. For a moment he’s completely dumbfounded, why is she crying? “Here’s mature!” She picks up the pitcher and throws it at him. He barely manages to duck away in time. He only realizes why she’s smiling through her tears when the pitcher breaks apart against the door behind him and the water inside explodes into a haze of drops, shards and scorching fire. He’s blasted forward and knocked out cold. 

There’s nothing; absolutely nothing for a while. He’s not aware of anything, like a sleep so deep he’s gotten lost inside his own body. Slowly the world starts to filter back in and he stands at the centre of a swirling vortex of images and Arthur’s hand is on his shoulder, shaking him but no .... He’s floating in an ocean of noise and colour; black with red, green and blue clouds. He feels weightless and then he feels weighed down. There’s something jamming him in the back and he tries to reach out to grasp it. He pulls away a shard of ceramic coated in a clear liquid. A voice shouts at him and he drops the shard. It falls and falls and falls away in the ocean and then there is nothing. 

He comes to with a killer headache and a hand gently slapping him in the face. “Mrrpf.” He tries to push the hand away. Instead the hand grasps his and another one briefly feels his forehead before slapping him again. 

“Merlin!” The shout manages to bring him to full wakefulness, to the realization that he’s aching and that his face feels gritty. Arthur is leaning over him and behind the look on his face he’s worried. “Merlin? Can you hear me?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be able to hear you?” Merlin asks. 

Arthur grasps his arm and slowly pulls him upright. “Because that’s what happens when someone’s in the middle of an explosion.” 

“Explosion?” He looks down and realizes he’s sitting in the middle of a pile of rubble. A look around confirms that the rubble was once The Singing Hedgehog. It’s dark and there are people holding torches everywhere, providing meagre light. One part of the tavern is whole, but the other part has been cleanly blown off. “Is anyone else hurt?” 

“Some people got caught underneath the rubble, but so far no one’s dead.” Arthur slowly helps him up and if Merlin wasn’t still confounded by the explosion he’d notice how gentle Arthur was being. 

“Merlin!” 

They both look up to see Gwaine pushing at one of the beams alongside Percival and Lancelot and a few farmers who are giving a helping hand. 

“You alright? You look a right mess!” 

“I’m fine,” Merlin shouts back and turns to look at Arthur, who’s still holding on to his elbow, allowing Merlin to lean on him. “I look a right mess?” 

Arthur looks him up and down. Merlin’s covered in dust, settling thick on his hair and his lashes. His face is dark with the grime of it. He has a cut right above his eyes and blood is seeping into his eyebrow. His jacket is torn and he’s missing a shoe. He shrugs, “Not more than usual.” Merlin gives him that double take he sometimes does, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Arthur wants to thwack him upside the head but he doesn’t. Merlin’s head got quite a beating enough today and he doesn’t want to permanently scramble his brain. 

“What do you think you were doing?” he asks instead and feels exasperated when Merlin blinks at him innocently. “Leon got the guards to fetch me and he told me that you thought the serving girl had enchanted him. He said that you’d gone to confront her, _on your own_!” The last part is shouted and a few of the people around turn to stare. 

“I just wanted to talk to her,” Merlin says, snatching his elbow away. The force of it nearly threatens to tip him over backwards and Arthur grabs his shoulder to stop him from falling. 

“She’s a witch, you _i_ -diot! You can’t reason with a witch.” he says and Merlin feels breathless and angry. He’s trying, trying so hard. 

“She’s a person, just like you and me. I thought I could reason with her, or something. I just wanted to help Leon.” He feels like he’s pleading and that’s the last thing he wants. He wants to be confident and calm, to say something in such a way that Arthur will believe him. He wants to shake some sense into Arthur, into the world around him. 

Arthur’s hand softly squeezes his shoulder. “She tried to kill my father, Merlin. She enchanted an innocent person to do it.” Arthur squeezes his shoulder again. “And it’s not up to you, to help. You should have come to me; that’s what I’m here for. It’s not your job to go out here and put yourself in danger, _Mer_ lin.” 

Merlin doesn’t like the way Arthur says his name the same way he says idiot; like they mean the same thing. He sighs and rubs his eyes, but catches his finger on the cut and winces. 

“You should have Gaius take a look at that,” Arthur says and brushes it with his thumb, there’s a frown burrowing its way into forehead and Merlin wants to smooth it out and say something like ‘your face will get stuck like that’ but Arthur steps away before he can be seriously tempted. 

The beam Gwaine and others were pushing finally shifts and they manage to rescue the young man trapped beneath. They watch for a minute as Gaius checks on him. 

“What happened?” 

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t know. We were arguing and then she picked up a pitcher of water. Or I thought it was a pitcher of water. I ducked and it blew apart behind me.” 

“You’re telling me a pitcher of water caused this?” 

Merlin shrugs. “Magic water.” 

“Magic water,” Arthur mutters under his breath. “Did you see where she went?” 

Merlin shakes his head. “No, but she really hates your father.” 

Arthur sighs and again, resists the urge to hit Merlin on the back of the head. “Well, she knows we’re on to her now. That means she’ll be probably use the confusion to leave Camelot.” 

Merlin nods and follows Arthur out of the rubble, carefully finding his way around chunks of wooden beams, destroyed tables and brick. Not a lot of people look like they’re hurt. For the most part, they look confused and scared. Most of the knights are helping shift the rubble to make sure that no one else is trapped underneath. Some of the guards are shooing people away so they won’t stand around; gawking. They don’t need a crowd at a time like this. Gaius is taking care of the people most grievously injured and Gwen is helping him. Most people are sitting up, but some are still unconscious. There are a few figures in chainmail among them; the knights who were drinking in the tavern before it blew up. Merlin stops walking; casts his eyes back to the knights and to the guards. 

“Arthur!” The prince stops and turns back sideways to look at him. He stumbles forward, nearly bangs his knee against a stone block used as the foundation for the rest of the tavern wall. “Nearly all the knights are here. The Citadel is almost empty. What if she doesn’t leave Camelot?”

The whole city seems to hold its breath until Arthur’s face turns pale. The prince turns around and starts running. Merlin goes after him and he runs like his life depends on it. His socked foot starts hurting but he ignores the urge to start limping and just keeps running. He gets stitches in his side too soon and he starts gasping for breath. Arthur is ahead and Merlin has never seen him run like this before. They cut through the Upper Town in less than five minutes, into the courtyard of the citadel. They race up the wide steps and pass a few guards. 

“Come with me!” Arthur shouts at them and they immediately run with them. Merlin doesn’t know where Arthur got the air to yell with. They go up, up, up stairs and Merlin thinks he might faint and tumble all the way down. His lungs are fighting for air, his heart is beating wildly in his rib cage and his throat feels like it’s on fire. His muscles feel like a mop that’s been used too often but he can’t stop running even though his legs might just collapse underneath him. He stumbles on the final step but recovers before he hits the floor. The corridor leading to Uther’s chambers is abandoned. The guards stationed outside the king’s door are unconscious. 

Arthur makes a pained noise in the back of his throat at the sight of them and then bursts through the door. There’s a young man in a red cloak, chain mail and a red cape leaning over Uther, a knife in his hand. The boy’s head jerks up at the sound of them entering and in the movement the image shifts and breaks. Suddenly there’s a blonde-haired girl in a blue frock, white apron and a red cloak she must have nicked from one of the unconscious knights. She turns back to Uther and moves to slice his throat but Arthur tackles her to the ground instead. They hit the carpet with a thud. 

“No!” she screams and tries to right herself, but Arthur grabs her legs. She kicks him in the face and he goes down, but makes sure to take her with him. Merlin and the guards try to rush forward, but the girl stretches out her hand and shouts something. A blast of magic throws them up against the stone walls and the guards are knocked out cold. Merlin’s head is throbbing and when he tries to get up he staggers back under the violent urge to be sick. He falls back to his knees and can only watch through watery eyes as Gloria gets up on her knees, turns and raises her hand to plunge the knife in Arthur’s chest. 

A desperately moaned ‘no’ shakes his skull and Merlin doesn’t know it was his own voice. He tries to scramble to his feet, gather his magic, do anything to protect Arthur but his teeth are clenched together to fight the bile clawing its way up his throat. He finally manages to get to his feet, in time to watch Arthur roll away from the knife, get one knee underneath him and backhand Gloria across the face. The force of it throws her back to the ground and she lets go of the knife. It skitters across the floor and disappears underneath Uther’s bed. 

“No!” Her voice pierces the air and makes Merlin’s brain rattle inside his skull. Arthur reaches out to touch her but she stands and stretches out her hand. Her eyes glow gold and Arthur stops. He coughs twice and hesitates, as if he doesn’t know what’s going on. A thin, reedy sound comes out of his mouth and he grabs at his throat. Merlin’s heart beats in a rapid rhythm like an enchantment _He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe_. Arthur falls to his knees; hunched over and clawing at his throat now. His nails leave fiery, red trails behind. She kicks him in the throat and Arthur falls sideway. He’s too weak to get up and Merlin can only see the back of his golden head as he struggles for air. 

She turns her back on Merlin, towards Uther, raises her hand and he arches up from the bed, hands clutching at his chest with a hoarse shout. 

Merlin doesn’t even think about it. He ignores his aching head, the nausea that feels like a fist disembowelling his guts. He raises his hand and wills his magic forward. A vase on the mantelpiece flies into his hand. He moves closer and she turns to defend herself. Her eyes glow a vicious red and he can feel her magic reach out to strike him. It reaches; reaches for something _inside_ of him. He brushes it off by instinct, his magic blocking hers and when they touch is when he feels it. Her magic is sick and rotten, ruined, spoiled, like it’s not meant to be used this way. His own magic recoils and the air around her shimmers gold spotted with green, as if his own magic is trying to make him see what’s wrong with her. 

She falters and he uses the confused pause to smash the vase against the side of her head. She crashes to the floor, unconscious, and Uther slumps back against his pillows at the same time. Merlin ignores them both and rushes over to kneel by Arthur’s side. The young prince is still kneeling, only now he’s gulping in great deep breaths of air. Merlin thinks a brief prayer of thanks that Arthur’ alright and that his back was turned to Merlin all the time. 

“You’re alright,” Merlin murmurs and can’t resist wrapping his arm around Arthur’s shoulder. He wants to press their foreheads together, but he doesn’t. “You’re alright.” 

Arthur swallows and takes another deep breath. “I’ve never seen anyone use magic like that before.” His voice is raspy and breathless. 

“Me neither,” Merlin says and makes a mental note to ask Gaius about it. Slowly Arthur sits back on his heels. Merlin lets him go and crawls over to Gloria. He checks her pulse. “She’s fine, just unconscious. She’ll wake up soon enough.” 

“Will she admit that she enchanted Leon?” Arthur asks, standing slowly. 

“I don’t know.” 

Arthur nods and then stumbles towards the bed. “How’s my father?” Uther is lying on top of the pillows. His eyes are closed, his breathing is even, but slightly laboured. Merlin stands, wants to check the king’s pulse but instead he reels backwards, his headache nearly driving him to his knees. 

“Merlin!” 

Arthur grabs his arms and pulls him forward to stop him from toppling over backwards. Merlin simply leans against Arthur’s shoulder for a moment, breathing through his mouth and waiting for the spots to fade from his vision. 

“Are you alright?” 

Merlin shakes his head and groans. “My head.” 

A warm hand cards through the hair at the back of his head and he winces when it touches the sore spot. 

“You’ve a nasty bump and probably a concussion. Come on.” Arthur helps him to a seat and carefully sets him down. He unties Merlin’s neckerchief and wets it with some cold water from the bowl on the night stand. He presses it against the back of Merlin’s head. Merlin groans and reaches up a hand to hold the neckerchief in place. 

“Thank you.” 

Arthur shrugs and turns back to the bed to feel for the king’s pulse. It seems steady, but the breathing worries him. He quickly checks on the two guards. 

“Sire?” Three guards are gathered at the door, probably attracted by all the shouting. 

“You,” Arthur points at one of them. “Arrest the girl, take her down to the dungeons.” He looks at Gloria and sneers. “And take off her cloak. You,” he points at another one, “go to the Lower Town and fetch Gaius; tell him to come as fast as he can.” He motions at the last one and says, “Go find a few guards near the great hall. These two need to be taken to their barracks.” 

They all nod and quickly move to obey. The last Merlin sees of Gloria that night is when she’s carried away to the cold dungeons below the castle. 

To Be Continued


	6. Chapter 6

It’s dark in the cells when they bring her down. There’s some faint torchlight for the guards to work by as they lay her down on the straw pallet in the cell opposite his, but not much. The shadows stretch out over the walls and there’s no moonlight to beat them back. The heavy clank of the cell door closing behind the guards sounds final and Leon watches them lock it and walk away down the hall. He looks back at the cell. In the dark, he can only see the light of the torches glint off her hair. He stares even though it’s hard to look at her. He remembers her smile and the desire to kiss her mouth.

“She was caught in the king’s chamber. She was trying to kill him,” Arthur says and Leon jumps because he hadn’t even heard the prince approach. 

“How did she get past the guards?” 

Arthur shifts on his feet and Leon recognizes the tell tale sign of unease. “She used magic. Gaius says she probably stole a cloak from one of the knights and put a spell on it. It made her look like a knight of Camelot and the guards just let her by. The ones who wouldn't were knocked unconscious. The spell broke when we caught her by surprise.” He turns his head sideways so they can make eye-contact and Leon catches sight of a bruise on Arthur’s cheekbone. 

“Did she hurt you?” Leon gestures at the bruise and Arthur shrugs. 

“It’s fine. She just got a kick in.” 

“Anyone else get hurt? 

Arthur shakes his head and then nods, as if he can’t quite make up his mind. “She tore up The Singing Hedgehog. Only half of the tavern is still standing. People were trapped underneath the rubble and got hurt. Merlin was one of them. He says she threw a pitcher of magic water at him and it exploded when it hit the door. He’s fine, though, just a cut and a lost shoe. He got his head beat in later though; a concussion. It could have been worse.” 

Leon knows that it’s a small comfort when you say “it could have been worse.” He grabs one of the bars and pulls himself up. He’s resting most of his weight on his right leg and he’s leaning against the wall close the bars of his cell, but at least he’s upright. He slips his hand between the bars and lays it on Arthur’s shoulder. He wants so say something like, “It’s not your fault Merlin is determined to get himself killed on your behalf.” But he doesn’t, because Arthur wouldn’t listen to it anyway. Instead he says, “He could have lost one of his ears.” 

Arthur ducks his head, hiding a smile, and says, “He’d look even more lopsided.”He hesitates and rolls his shoulders. “She nearly choked me to death. She used magic in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s how she managed to put a spell on you.” 

“She admitted it?” 

“She did as much to Merlin, but I’m not sure if she’ll openly attest to it at her trial.” Arthur leans back against the bars of Leon’s cell. “I’ll make her though, if I have to. I’m not going to let her get away with this.” 

There’s something reassuring about knowing that Arthur will stand firm for him. Now that Arthur actually has some evidence to do so makes him breathe a little easier for the first time since his arrest. There’s some hope now that the last trip from these cells won’t be a short walk to the pyre. He might make it out of this alive. He looks back at the girl and realizes that she won’t. “When’s her trial?” 

“Tomorrow morning.” Arthur sounds tired and terse. He turns slightly to look at Leon. “We’ll have you out of here after. I promise.” 

“I think I can handle one last night.” 

Arthur takes Leon’s hand from his shoulder and clasps it close to his chest. “Good.” He releases Leon’s hand and glances back at the girl. “I’ll have the guards keep an eye on her.” 

Leon nods in response and watches Arthur walk away. He shifts slightly and uses the wall against his back to slowly slide back down unto his straw pallet. He shifts until he’s lying down, the blankets wrapped tight around him to keep away the chill. He misses his little room and his bed. He reaches up and curls his hand around one of the bars to ground himself. He might be in a cell now, but tomorrow he’ll be back in his own bed. He tries to stare at the metal in his hand and not at the girl in the dungeon across from him until he falls asleep. 

The nights in the dungeons are cold and dark. In the small round chamber, where all the different hallways to the cells converge like the centre of a spider’s web, a few torches burn. The light spills out into those halls and people in the cells can see the glimpse of it: a beacon to freedom. The guards quietly move through the halls every once in a while to check if the cells are still full. When they’re not patrolling they’re talking or playing cards in the lighted chamber, underneath the warm glow of fire. Their doublet, chainmail, surcoat and capes are enough to protect them from the permanent cold in the deep bowels of the citadel. They talk, but quietly and in near-whispers. The winding staircase remains empty until the guards are relieved by others at midnight. The night goes on, dark and silent. When the meek light of early morning spills over the courtyard, the barred and glassless windows at the top of the cells filter it in. The beams of light offer no relief; cold and grey the morning comes and wakes up the witch girl. 

She feels groggy and for a moment simply lies there, looking up at the ceiling and breathing slowly. Eventually, she sits up and takes in her surroundings. She has to blink against the cold morning light and slowly her vision sharpens until the blurry lines of the cell around her have become solid. A headache is slowly thumping itself into existence and she presses a hand against her forehead, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. The beam of light striking her eyes is coming from a paneless window at the top of the wall; broad enough for her to squeeze through, but too high for her to reach. She slowly stumbles to her feet and grasps at the bars, rattling them to see how strong they are. They don’t even budge in her hand. 

On the road to Camelot she often imagined what the dungeons looked like. She’d counted on the stones and the cells, but she hadn’t thought of the stale air or pale light hidden in the shadows. She rubs her arms but there’s no heat to be found anywhere. She hadn’t thought it would be so cold. She glances around but there are not blankets in her cell. A second glance reveals that there are no blankets in the other cells either, but there’s a figure with dirty brown and blond hair slumped in the cell across from hers. 

Her heart lodges in her throat when she realizes that it’s Leon. She can remember the smile on his face when they first met, the look in his eyes when she curled her hand in his shirt and asked him to come upstairs. She’d pushed him back on the bed, felt the strengths of his thighs between her legs, the scrape of his calluses against the skin of her calf and the heat of his mouth against hers. She shivers and turns away, rattling the bars nearer to the wall instead, hoping to find a weakness where steel meets mortar. There is none of course and she makes a noise of frustration deep inside her throat. 

Her headache grows stronger with every thump and she reaches up to touch the side of her head. Her hand does not come away bloody and her hair feels lose enough for her to know there is no blood clotted in there. There is some swelling though and if she has a concussion she’s lucky she woke up at all. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She doesn’t need words for this; her magic surges deep inside of her. It’s been a while since she’s summoned it without that sickly rush of abuse filling her stomach. She stretches it out towards the swelling and then, suddenly, without any warning, it _vanishes_. She stands there a like a fool, surprised and a small knot of worry tangling at the base of her spine. She tries again, again, again until she nearly doubles over in her efforts and spits the words into the air, “bataþ lácnestre þu sylfe!” 

“It won’t work.” 

It’s the boy from the tavern; the one with the big ears who’d discovered what she’d done and thought Pendragon might show her mercy. The last time she’d seen him he’d been buried underneath a pile of rubble while she wrapped a protective bubble around herself. He doesn’t seem to have any serious injuries though; only a cut above his eyebrow. There are dark bags underneath his eyes and his movements are stiff, careful. He seems calm and in control now. He doesn’t look like the angry little boy who grabbed her wrist and whispered in her ear. 

“Why not?” 

He steps closer, but not close enough for her to touch him if she stuck her arm out through the bars. He gestures at the cell. “Uther’s ancestors, the ones who built Camelot, melted the iron with a spell to make sure that within these cells magic cannot be used. It’s a strong spell. I know of only one warlock who can break through it.” 

She glares at him and wishes she could pour all her anger and her hatred into him to clog his arteries until his heart stopped beating. She doesn’t bother trying because if she can’t even cure herself she doesn’t stand a chance killing the boy. She eyes him suspiciously. “Who are you?” 

“My name’s Merlin. I’m Arthur’s manservant.”

She clenches her jaw together. “Let me out of here.” 

“No.” 

She tries to shake the bars. “How can you betray your own people like this? We’re exactly alike!” 

His whole body jerks as if he wants to step closer, but the clever little thing doesn’t. Instead he leans forward and his eyes pierce hers. “We are nothing alike.” He looks away from her, towards the cell with Leon in it and her throat closes up at the look on his face. “You were willing to sacrifice an innocent man to kill Uther. For what? Justice? Revenge?” He shakes his head at her when she tries to respond. “It doesn’t matter.” 

He looks at her and when he speaks, he sounds weary and sad but his shoulders are straight and his gaze unwavering. “Uther killed thousands of people and so, people try to kill him. Every time someone tries, they get arrested and executed and he gives our people another reason to hate him. So, another witch or wizard tries to kill him or attacks the city and every time it gives the people another reason to fear and hate magic. Thousands of lives ruined and ended by one man and you’re helping him.” He pauses to let that sink in. “You’re doing exactly what Uther wants. He’s told everyone that sorcerers are evil, they can’t be trusted. They can’t be kind or compassionate. They can’t love. You’re proving his point and the people believe him.” 

She wants to ask him why he’s here, why he’s telling her all of this. But her voice won’t work for her and there is nothing she can say. His gaze holds her for a moment longer. “What you did to Leon, it’s worse than wanting to kill someone. You have to confess that you enchanted him at your trial.” 

“Why” – her voices breaks when she speaks – “should I?” 

“He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve to die as a traitor.” 

She looks away and, inadvertently, her eyes land on Leon. Only the top of his head is visible; the rest of him is curled tight inside two blue blankets. Her jaws clench together. 

“You liked him, didn’t you?” 

Her head snaps back to look at him; tall and gangly but so sure of himself. “I had to pretend to get him alone.” 

“I don’t believe you.” He says it simply; like it’s self-evident. She wants to punch him in the face. How would he know how she feels? She doesn’t say anything. He sighs and his shoulders slump slightly. “I just want you to know that Leon is a good man. He’s kind, fair and loyal. He’s steadfast and a good friend. He doesn’t deserve to die like this.” 

In her memories and her dreams, she can hear her own voice screaming when she had to watch, helpless. 

_He doesn’t deserve to die like this!_

She looks back at the head of straw coloured hair peeking out from underneath the blankets. She says nothing. After a while, Merlin turns and walks away. She turns her head to watch him go and stands rooted to the spot. There’s something very close to shame crawling its way inside of her, through Merlin’s words, still resting on her skin. Her hands hang limply at her side and all she can do is swallow. It feels like she stands there forever. 

Outside, the sun grows stronger. Inside, the air slowly warms and the light deepens into lovely gold but Gloria is still cold inside. She takes another step back until she can slump down on the straw pallet. She takes a few deep breaths and rubs her arms, but she is still cold. The bars feel cold to the touch and she thinks it might be the magic inside of them. Magic used to control and quell other people’s gifts, to seep inside of them and chill the heat of their strength. She feels like crying, but this place has frozen the tears inside of her. The air in the dungeons is cold and every time she takes a breath it feels like ice crystallizing inside of her lungs.

She wonders if Uther knows that the very foundations of his kingdom were built with magic; wonders if he knows that the only way he’s managed to lock up warlocks long enough for them to be executed is because his own cells are soaked in magic. She can’t imagine he’d care even if he knew. This kind of magic does his bidding and she’s heard enough stories about Uther Pendragon and the magic of his old court to realize what kind of a hypocrite he is. 

Her eyes slide past the bars, into the opposing cell and her whole body starts when her eyes meet Leon’s. Her body holds her breath, every muscles tensing until her lungs finally breathe out again. The sound of it is loud in the dungeon and when he uses the bars of his cell to hoist himself to his feet, she turns away and wraps her arms around her middle. She presses her palm against her mouth and hopes to the Gods that he doesn’t say anything. She can’t see him when he reaches out and grasps at the bar as if he wants to reach through it and touch her. She can’t see him when he shakes his head to himself and looks away. 

They stay like that until the guards yank her to her feet and drag her all the way to the throne room. She doesn’t bother to struggle even when the cold magic of the cells is behind her. It’s a relief to leave that place behind even for a little while, even when she knows what’s coming. She has never seen a throne room before and she does not know whether she expected the wide windows or not. She didn’t expect the crowd of bystanders flanking her as the guards drag her forwards. Nobles, knights and commoners alike turned up to watch her trial. Their gazes are dark, frightened and angry. At the far end there’s a throne, but no one is sitting in it. When she clears the crowd she can see Merlin standing next to an old man on the right and on the left is Arthur Pendragon. 

Arthur Pendragon looks taller than he did that night she saw him at the tavern. He’s wearing a red shirt and a long, brown coat. He looks tall and imposing and if it hadn’t been for the bruise on his cheekbone you wouldn’t have been able to tell he’d been in a scrap the night before. His eyes stay on her until the guards push her to her knees and he steps forward. 

“Please, state your name in front of the court.” His voice is loud enough so everyone can hear. 

She dregs up the last remnants of her anger. She’ll bluster her way through this, be proud and unbending. She won’t let them see her beg and be afraid. She laughs. 

“Are you really going ahead with this farce?”

Pendragon’s eyes narrow and his voice turns forceful: the terse command of a prince. “Your name.” 

She clears her throat so her voice might reach as far as his does. “I am Gloria Redwood, daughter of Alva and Cadwgan, descendent of the Druids Behind The Wall.” 

His face shows no reaction and she wonders how ignorant he is of their ways. She wonders if Uther told his son about the different tribes and traditions or if he simply labelled them all ‘evil’ and was done with it. 

“Gloria Redwood, you have been charged with treason against your king, the enchantment of Leon of Conway to betray his king and country, the attempted murder of Merlin of Ealdor,” – there’s a small noise from Merlin’s corner and Gloria only catches the old man elbowing Merlin in the side when she glances their way – “the destruction of private property, breaking into the Citadel using magic, the attempted murder of the king, myself and several of Camelot’s guards. How do you plead?” 

“I plead guilty of all but one charge.” 

Arthur’s hands curl into fists by his side and a flash of fear, or maybe anger, crosses his face. She doesn’t need to look at Merlin to know that he’s watching her closely. 

“I did not commit treason.” The relief on Arthur’s face is too obvious for all of five seconds. “I came to Camelot with the sole purpose to kill Uther Pendragon. I enchanted Leon of Conway to ‘betray his king and country’, I did attempt to kill or at the very least maim Merlin of Ealdor.” She glances at the boy and wishes she could tear one of his ears clean off. 

“I destroyed the tavern that employed me and I broke into the Citadel using magic. When you caught me I was trying to kill your king and I did try to kill you and the guards that were with you. Those are my crimes and I admit to them willingly.” She swallows past the lump in her throat. “But for the charge of treason I am innocent. I _never_ swore an oath to Uther, nor did I ever pledge my loyalty or fealty to him. He is the not the man I call my king.” 

There’s silence in the hall and then Arthur nods. “Then I find you guilty of those charges you confess to.” There’s a dark murmur throughout the hall, but Arthur ignores it. “For the crimes that you have committed against Camelot, I sentence you to the pyre.” He watches as she rocks forward, her eyes squeezed shut and her lips pressed together in a tight line, too proud to cry and be afraid. “Is there anything you have left to say?” 

There’s a beat of tense and anticipatory silence as if the court is holding its breath and waiting for her to say something scandalous. A whisper starts up, like the rustling of leaves. Arthur wants to glare them all into silence, but doesn’t take his eyes off the witch girl. She slowly raises her head to look at him. Her blue eyes are red-rimmed as they look him up and down. She glances away and looks over the crowd. Her gaze is caught by something; like a sleeve on a nail. She meets Merlin’s eyes and in that thin ribcage, a heart starts pounding in fear of a secret that might be spilled. She looks back to Arthur and meets his eyes. 

“I regret that I enchanted Leon of Conway to betray everything he believes in. I regret destroying the livelihood of people who were kind to me. I regret having tried to kill you, Arthur Pendragon, and those who would fight for you. And I regret that I did not succeed what I set out to do and that Uther Pendragon still draws breath.” Whispers set the hall alight; shocked and angry. 

“I will go to my grave cursing his name and wishing him dead. He has killed thousands of people. He butchered and drowned children!” Her voice thickens into tears but they do not spill over her cheeks. “Innocent people have burned to death, people that I _loved_ and he will never be held accountable for his crimes.” She raises her voice. “And I want you to know that your father is nothing but a liar and a hypocrite who preaches justice but holds himself above his own laws!” Her voice swells to a shout but Arthur’s face is unmovable and he looks made of stone. 

He steps forward, until she has to crane her neck backwards to look at him. “Your execution will be held on the morrow. You have one last day and one last night to think of your crimes.” 

Their eyes meet, neither willing to look away first. A crooked smile breaks out over her face and he’s never seen a woman look more cruel and bitter, not even Morgana. “He deserves the pyre more than I do.” 

To Be Continued


	7. Chapter 7

Two hours after Leon was first released, they all cram into his tiny chamber. There’s a near tangible sense of relief in the room; something giddy in every face. Leon is sitting on the bed with his leg carefully outstretched. After a hot bath, a change of clothes and a shave, Leon looks almost as good as new, except for his leg. Merlin is glad that quiet, sad dignity has gone from him. Somehow, it was almost painful to see; how Leon would have allowed them to kill him as long as it would have protected Arthur’s reign and position at court. How he would have faced it all, with that quiet, sad dignity blanketing him like a cloak. 

Arthur is sitting next to him; carefully near the edge of the bed while Leon’s leg lies behind him. Gwaine and Merlin are sitting by side on the floor with their backs against the wall, next to the bed where Leon’s sitting, underneath the single, broad window. Gwen is sitting on the only available chair and Elyan is leaning against the table. Percival is sitting on the ground near the door and Lancelot is sitting next to him. Merlin is surprised they can all fit. 

Merlin knows everything should be alright. Leon’s fine, safe and whole and there’s a smile on his face. Everything should be fine, but it isn’t. Gloria had been curled up in a far away corner of her cell when Merlin and Arthur had come down to help Leon hobble out. She’d curled up on her straw pallet, her knees tucked underneath her chin, her hair down and hiding her face. Her back had been turned to them; her shoulder blades sticking out underneath the thin fabric of her dress. Arthur hadn’t looked at her. He’d simply helped Leon put on a deep red cloak and wrapped the other man’s arm around his own shoulders to help him walk. Leon had glanced in the direction of Gloria’s cell and Merlin hadn’t known what to think at the look on his face. 

That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? He doesn’t know what to think about all of this. She’d been the same like all the others; angry, righteous, bitter and ruthless. But she’d confessed to what she’d done to Leon even if dragging him with her might have been the only way left to take some measure of revenge. She’d kept Merlin’s secret when she could have destroyed him. She’d held her head high while tears threatened to spill down her face. She’d testified to her regrets, but claimed for the whole court to hear that she’d go to her gave wishing Uther dead. Merlin’s already heard several servants whisper that the witch would curse them all if they put her on the pyre. 

Gwaine elbows him in the side and whispers, “You alright, Merlin? You’re rather quiet.” 

“I’m fine.” Merlin assures him, nodding. Gwaine looks at him for a beat, obviously not convinced but he doesn’t say anything. 

Merlin rests his head against the wall behind him and is tempted to close his eyes. He hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before and the cut above his eye keeps itching as it heals. His head still hurts but not nearly as much as the previous evening. Gaius had given him a potion along with a raised eyebrow, but thankfully he hadn’t said anything. Merlin wants to talk to him, to ask him for advice. But he already knows what Gaius would say, to stay quiet and let it pass. He’s tried to just bask in the knowledge that Leon will be fine, but he keeps thinking of the tears on Gloria’s face when she’d thrown the pitcher at him. He turns his head sideways to look at Leon and wonders if they’d spoken to each other in that cold place. He won’t ask though. He looks away again, into a room full of friends where only one of them knows who he truly is. 

He feels tired and upset and wishes he could just curl up and sleep forever. He doesn’t want to be responsible for all of this. He doesn’t want to be the one who has to make the decisions; whether to poison his friend or not, report this witch or not, allow this person to die or not. He’s tired of the secrets and the deaths. He can remember the face of every person and magical creature he’s ever killed and it makes him sick inside when he knows that he will kill again, for Arthur, for Camelot, if he has to. He looks up and watches Arthur laugh, clap his hand on Leon’s shoulder. Arthur looks happy, content and unconcerned with the witch in the dungeons waiting for her death. 

“I’m glad you’re alright, Leon.” Arthur says, voice soft and worried, low enough that only Leon should have heard. 

“Thank you, Arthur.” Leon looks thankful and briefly rests his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. 

Merlin doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t really have to. Conversation around him flows freely and while Gwaine nudges him every once in a while, he’s not pressed to speak. He’s grateful, because he’s not sure he’d be able to sustain a light and casual conversation right now. He catches snatches of their conversation. 

“I don’t suppose any of you are going to the tavern tonight?” 

“There _is_ no tavern.” 

“... We could go somewhere else, I guess.” 

One by one they all start to filter out, until Leon looks tired and haggard and Arthur, Gwaine and Merlin decide to leave too. They carefully file through the door and close it behind them. 

“You alright, Merlin?” Gwaine asks and bumps his shoulder against Merlin’s. 

“I’m fine.” 

Arthur turns to him, frowning. “Is it your head?” 

Merlin frowns. “I said I’m fine.” He breaks away from them and wraps his arms around his waist. Behind his back, Arthur and Gwaine share a look but don’t say anything. Merlin hurries away from the barracks, crosses the courtyard and blazes by Gaius’ workshop to slam the door of his small room behind him. He feels too full for his skin, like his magic wants to burst out and be free. 

Gaius comes to inquire quietly if Merlin is alright and Merlin just asks him to leave. He doesn't want to talk to anyone about it. He wants to be alone with his thoughts so he can try and figure out what he is thinking. He waits until it is dark. There’s no moon and he slips from shadow to shadow until he can sneak down several staircases. The guards don’t see him. When they turn to look, he simply flicks their gazes elsewhere or lets them slide right over him, unseeing. The dungeons are cold and dark with only a few torches to light his way. But Merlin doesn’t need fire to see through the darkness. 

She’s awake still and he isn’t really surprised. She’s sitting on the sad heap of straw pushed against the far wall of her cell. She’s wrapped her apron around her bare arms and is trying to rub some warmth into them. Her pale blond hair is loose and dirty around her face, falling to her waist. With a small spell a circle of light glows into existence and he steps out of the shadows. 

She doesn’t bother to look up. “What do you want?” She sounds tired and raw, like she’s been crying and her throat is sore from her cries. 

“Who was it?” The question bubbles out of him before he even knows that’s he wants to know. 

She looks up at him. Tears have carved paths down her dust-stained cheeks. Her eyes are stained red and with the dirty tangles of her hair framing her face, she looks absolutely pitiful. But her head is held high and her jaw is firmly set. 

“What?” 

“You said that Uther had killed innocent people that you loved. Who were they?” 

A muscle in her jaw jumps and she inhales sharply through her nose. But she does not look away. “My name, Redwood, is passed on from mother to daughter in my family. We have the gift of healing magic. We can feel and directly influence the body in a way that others can't. It's unique to my house and others of my tribe. My whole my family was butchered during the purge and my mother was burned as a witch. I was only four months old and she turned herself in to buy my father time so he could flee with me. My father was a healer as well, but less proficient with the art of magic.” 

He doesn’t say anything. Her eyes burn into his and keep him in place, keep him silent. 

“About a year ago, this noblewoman became very ill and no healer in the land could heal her. She spread the rumour that she would protect and richly reward any magic user who could make her well again. My father went and she recovered.... And when she did, she reported him to Uther, who gave her a great reward in return. As soon as I heard, I tried to get to him. But all I could do was stand in the crowd and scream that he didn’t deserve to die like that.” 

Her eyes break away from him and she bows her head, like she’s trying to stop him from seeing her tears. 

“So you tried to kill Uther. Why didn’t you go after the noblewoman?” 

She looks up again, her face wet but a chilling smile bares her teeth. “Who says I didn’t?” 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know why he came here or what he thought he might accomplish. Except that maybe, he’d like to think that this doesn’t need to end with a witch’s blood staining Arthur’s hand. 

“I’m not going to apologize, Merlin. I’m not sorry, if that’s what you’re hoping for.” 

He realizes he’s looking for an excuse to help her. He wants to find something good in her, to prove to himself that he’s not the only good magic user out there. 

“I want to thank you for what you did for Leon, instead of dragging him down with you. And for not telling anyone that I’m a sorcerer.” 

She shrugged. “There was no reason to. What did I have to gain by getting either of you killed?” 

“Revenge?” He offered. 

She snorted. “Getting revenge has worked out so well for me.” He doesn’t reply and she sighs. “What are you doing here?” 

He raises one hand to the bars, curls his fingers around one and tightens his grip. “The magic you used; your enchantment of Leon, that man you made choke in his ale, choking Arthur, giving Uther a heart attack, trying to reach into me ... Tell me you’ve used it for good, too. That you haven’t only used your gift to kill people.” 

She stands and he immediately backs away from the bars, out of reach from her long arms. Her eyes are fierce and angry. “I have dedicated my whole life to the healing arts and to helping people.” Her voice is a low hiss. “I can heal the deadliest of diseases and injuries. I have never yet met my equal in the healing arts. I assure you, the gift is not meant to be used in the way that,” she hesitated, “in the way that I used.” 

“I don’t understand you.” Merlin said. “How can you be both....” He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. 

She leans her head against the bars. “I’ve told you all there is to know. You know my history with Uther and I have told you what my regrets are and what they are not. There is nothing more I can tell you that would help you understand. Some things are beyond understanding.” 

“If you swear to me to never harm Camelot, or its king or its people, if you promise to leave right now, I will help you escape.” 

She narrows her eyes, looks him up and down and shakes her head. “Why?” 

“Because ... Because you showed Leon and I mercy and we should do the same. If we keep killing each other, where does it all end?” 

She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know.” She looked at him quietly, tired and wan. “Alright.” She straightened. “How do you want me to swear it? Through blood? Magic?” 

He shakes his head. “I’ll take your word.” 

“My word? You don’t need any reassurance?” She sounds mocking, like she did in the tavern. He ignores it. 

“One of us has to start trusting the other.” 

She raises both her eyebrows at that, but nods in assent. “Very well. I promise. I give you my word that I will leave Camelot this very night and will not return to harm any of its citizens or its king. Nor will I aid or abet anyone who seeks to harm Camelot, its king and its people.” 

“I hear your promise and rest assured that I will see you keep it. Now, step back.” She does as he tells her to and he reaches out one hand to the bars. It takes a lot of power to blow open bars infused with magic. It takes all of his acquired skill with a good surge of his own natural ability before the bars break and the door swings open. She wrenches the door open further with her bare hands. The noise attracts the guards, but by the time they get there, both he and Gloria have melted into shadows. 

When the guards turn their back to examine the door, Merlin whispers a spell and a gust of wind pushes them forward into the cell and to the floor. Gloria reaches out to slam the cell door closed and with a quick breath, Merlin melts the bars back together into a mesh of black steel. The noise has attracted the two guards left, but Gloria grabs one of the torches from the wall and knocks one out cold. The other one runs up the stairs to ring the warning bell. 

They quickly run up the stairs after him, but by the time they reach the top, the bells are already ringing loud and clear, echoing through the Upper and Lower Town. They have to cross the courtyard but to avoid being caught in the open they stay close to the buildings, hiding in the shadows while guards run by and shout at each other. 

“The witch has escaped the Dungeons!” Arthur’s voice rings out above all of them and Merlin winces. He’d briefly hoped that Arthur wouldn’t have been awoken, that he’d sleep through all of this, but he should have known that Arthur would be in the thick of whatever trouble was going on. 

The Upper Town is slightly easier to navigate. They hide in doorways and in dark alleys when guards march past. They sneak around in the shadows, down the winding stairs and finally reach the Lower Town. He takes her hand and guides her to the Southern Gate. It’s a small one, unlike the other entrances into Camelot. It’s not used often, as the others are easier to use by the crowds coming to market and the nobles to lead their carriages through. It only has one guard posted there and they easily lure him into the shadows and knock him out. They pass through the gate and through the Outer Town unseen. 

Finally, they run out into the forest, the whisper in the tree tops covering the rustle of their bodies running through the bushes and the undergrowth. They run and run until the bell of Camelot is far behind them and the Mountains loom threateningly. The sun is approaching the horizon and will be peeking over the edge soon. The stars are fading into the twilight before sunrise and Merlin halts, knowing he will not reach Camelot before he needs to be in Arthur’s chambers. He wants to drop to the ground at the thought of doing all his chores when he hasn't slept in two nights. 

He’s panting for breath when she turns to speak to him. “I owe you my life, Merlin. One day, I will repay you if I can.” 

“All I ask is that you do good, to be kind and to use your gift well.” He tries to tell her how much he needs her to do so through the weight of his gaze. 

She nods. “I will. Goodbye, Merlin.” 

“Goodbye, Gloria.” 

Their eyes meet for just a second and then she vanishes into the trees, heading towards the foot of the mountains. He doesn’t know where she’s going, if she has any place to go to now that her father is dead and she is no longer chasing revenge. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see her again, but he hopes that if he does, it’ll be in better circumstances. 

The End


End file.
